


The Ring Goes South

by Beatriceorme



Series: The Ring Series [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 88,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2624411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatriceorme/pseuds/Beatriceorme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring is here...Now.</p>
<p>A Modern Re-telling of "The Lord of the Rings"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are at the beginning again!
> 
> Hope everyone continues to enjoy the journey!
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING! This chapter contains non-consensual sex.

 

 

  **Chapter One**

 

“Wake up, maggot!”

Made him appreciate his mother’s ‘Good morning, Sunshine!’

“I said, wake up!”

Pippin rolled away from the kick only to be caught by another to the back. He grimaced but otherwise showed no outward reaction as he struggled to sit up _. How long was I asleep?_ Couldn’t have been but a few minutes; he could still see Merry through the poster cluttered window of the convenience store.

_How did we get into this?_

Grim and mottled from abuse, body moving listlessly from candy to chip aisle, Pippin studied that face as he rubbed where the latest kick had landed, just one more in a long series of brutal attacks both he and Merry had endured over the past few hours. Kept apart, unable to talk or touch since the parking deck, the only form of contact between them came in the form of furtive and longing looks as they rode trussed up like luggage behind the orcs. His friend’s eye had stopped bleeding, but the puffiness still covered half of that adorable face, and appeared to grow a deeper shade of purple by the minute.

_Better yet, how the hell do we get out?_

The dawn arrived like a lump in the grey sky mumbling of rain, maybe even snow, and Pippin shivered in his thin shirt. No stranger to cold weather, coming from the hills of Tennessee, he had grown somewhat accustomed to the long winters that seemed to hold the northern states in their sway for over half of the year. But, beat up, sleep deprived and hungry body dropped cold tolerance to zero, and as he sat on the pathetic patch of what used to be grass outside Dunland Kwikee Mart idly playing with a discarded tube of lipstick and waiting for his captors to gas up, he dreamed of hot, humid, sticky days of August when you broke a sweat just changing your mind. Thoughts of home didn’t help much; really, they just inevitably lead him to homesickness and the despair that he would never see the Great Smokies again.

The country boy had left the mountains to travel to the big city where the only real green was reachable by taking the midtown subway, with one transfer, and wading through a slew of people who believed you to be the Son of Sam reborn if you smiled at them. Loneliness had nearly eaten Pippin alive those first few weeks at Columbia, so out of his element he had emerged from his dorm room for classes only, his takeout box collection expanding every day. However, something happened midway through the second semester of his freshman year that put New York City on top, and his mountain shuffled to frequent visit status.  _Guess you could blame my current predicament on a mechanical pencil._

Lead was the only thing he needed and he had been determined to run in to the bookstore, grab what he wanted, then bolt back to the comforting anonymity of his room. _Best laid plans and all that, right?_

“Is that all you have? Then, please, go ahead of me.”

Pippin had looked up at the biggest blue eyes he had ever seen with arms loaded down with books and they were offering the place ahead in the long line. “It’s OK, don’t mind waitin’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Thanks anyway.”

“Hey! I know you! You sit all the way over on the right by the door in Professor Henna’s US History class, right?”

Idle conversation was the last thing he wanted, but if he were rude to this man, Pippin knew somehow his Nana Banks would find out and travel all the way up here to this godforsaken place and box his ears for forgetting his manners. “That’s right, second to last seat in the back.”

The young man smiled, shifting his heavy load. “Thought that was you. Can always spot another doser.”

“Doser?”

“Yeah, you’ve learned the gentle art of sleeping in class with your eyes open. Useful tool. Wish I had known last semester in Dr. Boyens class. Boooring, but hard, and to make it worse, it was the first one of the day. Ever try microeconomics at seven forty-five in the morning?”

Pippin shook his head, but this time held his tongue.

“Well, don’t, unless you want your GPA to plummet. Hardest teacher in the department.”

“I thought that was Dr. Smith and Constitutional Review. Nearly peed in my pants every time that old man looked at me. I suwannee he knows all that stuff ‘cause he was there when the damn thing was written.” _Did I just say that? Peed in my pants? Oh, god, now he’s gonna’ think I’m some sort of short bus freak!_

“Think that’s bad? Try Professor’s Odesky. He has the shrunken heads of students who had the temerity to question his expertise decorating his office. Don’t EVER raise your hand in his class; you might bring back a nub.” The books moved again and the young man stuck out his hand. “Frodo.”

The offered hand presented a quandary. Is it safer to remain lonely using the excuse of being new in town to cover for your fear, or to put yourself out there, meet people, be rejected, and still remain lonely? Pip had learned to tolerate the former, and knew one more later would see him taking the bus home. But, Nana’s face came back to him, disappointed scowl crystal clear. “Pippin, Pippin Took.”

The young man’s smile sincere. “Very glad to meet you, Pippin Took. Baggins, Frodo Baggins.”

Their hands shook once, twice – “Oh -” and on the third the load in Frodo’s arms tilted and, despite a desperate scramble books, pencils, folders and a package of sour Starbursts tumbled to the floor. “- crap,” the timing perfect for a foot to collide with the Political Systems of Europe.

“Fuck!” A body sprawled on the bookstore floor cursing up a storm. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Are you fucking crazy? Could’ve fucking killed – ow!” A potentially lethal rug burned elbow entered into evidence. “And this fucking hurts!”

_Forgive me, Nana, for what I am about to say._ “Can’t you say anything except fuck? Is that the extent of your vocabulary, huh? I suggest you look in a dictionary and try to expand your oral skills by learning at least one new word, thus bringing it up to two. Besides, you are the clumsy one. You tripped over the books, not the other way around. So, if you’re gonna’ to fucking complain, why don’t you look at your own damn self before you start slinging fucking accusations, you fucking moron!” The most he had said since the first day of orientation. “Now apologize.”

“Excuse me?”

Pippin pointed to Frodo. “Apologize for bein’ rude and blamin’ him for your own ineptitude.”

Frodo placed a hand on Pippin’s shoulder. “He doesn’t need to do that, really.”

“I know, but if he counts himself a gentleman, he should.”

“Don’t think we have to worry about that,” Frodo and his smirk gathered up the fallen school supplies, “Not the gentlemanly type.”

“Hey!” Clumsy guy took some serious umbrage at that. “Speak for yourself!”

“Let’s forget the whole thing, OK? Partly my fault for dropping the books in the first place.” Frodo grunted as he stood, arms loaded again “Thank you, Pippin, for all your help.”

Didn’t know why, why here in the bookstore of all places, why now after months of suffering silent soul-numbing, why bother with just one of the bagillion rude New York assholes, why this one guy rubbed him all kind’s a wrong. Didn’t know why, but he did. “No problem.” He took part of Frodo’s load into his own arms. “That’s what gentlemen do.”

“Christ! Again with the gentleman thing,” ill manners and irate pushed up off the floor, “give it a fucking rest, will ya’?”

“Gladly. I have no desire to speak to one so boorish.” And satisfied moral superiority turned away.

“Jesus! OK, OK. I apologize for my abominable behavior and false accusations of your complicity in the mishap that indeed appears to fall entirely on my guilty shoulders. Will you please accept this humble act of contrition, Mr. Baggins?”

“Most assuredly, Mr. Brandybuck, considering most of these books are yours anyway.”

“You two, you -” could probably have fried a whole mess of green tomatoes on the scarlet heat that turned back around, “know each other?:

“Meet my klutzy friend, Merry Brandybuck,” a giggling introduction “Merry, this is Pippin Took who suffers through US history with me every morning at eleven.”

Merry clicked his heels and bowed stiffly. “Merry Brandybuck, at your service, Mr. Took. Your reputation precedes you. I hear you are truly a scholar, _and_ a gentleman.”

A locust plague, a cataclysmic earthquake, the Rapture with all the heavenly host hosannahing up their hallejuahs, with regrets for the unsuspecting surrounding populace sincere, Pippin Took prayed mightily for the apocalypse ‘cause, short of the floor cracking open and swallowing him whole, there was no way to defeat the embarrassment of just how far out there he had showed his ass. “I, uh, I…”

“Don’t worry, Pip, you were right about Merry,” Frodo’s assessment truthful, “he is an ass.”

“And damn proud of it.” Merry gave Frodo’s head a friendly swat. “That’s why I hang with this wanker.”

Pippin did not know exactly what a wanker was, but he wholeheartedly wished he could be one if it meant having friends like the pair jostling each other in line. Back home, a big fish in a little pond, his had been the opinion everyone clamored for, his attendance at a party guaranteed its success, his home the stuff of small town envy. The big pond he found himself in now, made all the lonelier by his childhood popularity, had become unfathomably deep and dark as he traversed the empty waters alone, and that aloneness brought to sparkling clarity by the easy friendship of Frodo and Merry. _God, I want to go ho –_

“You’re from down south somewhere, right?”

Pippin blinked surprise, that question, the pleasant, almost friendly, genuine appearing question belonged to the man he had just insulted, belittled and shamed after a five second acquaintance. “Yeah, Tennessee.”

“Good.” Books nabbed from Pippin’s arm landed into –

“Hey!”

\- Frodo’s, him sinking under the load again.

“Was wondering something,” an arm around houlders, Merry steered Pippin toward the door. “Is it true, about moonshine?”

“That depends on what moonshine you’re talkin’ about.” That whole swallowing up and disappearing for good thing, yeah, visiting within the circle of Frodo’s giggle and Merry’s smile, he’d take a rain check on that for now. “There’s shine, and then there’s _shine_.”

“Hey! What about me?”

Merry dug out his wallet, pulled out the AmEx Gold and walked back. “Here." He stuck the card in you’ve got to be shitting me gaping mouth. "We’ll meet you outside.” Then, afterthought plopped the box of mechanical pencil lead Pippin strangled in his sweaty fist on top of Frodo’s burden. “Don’t be long, Baggins, ‘cause I’m hungry.”

Merry sauntered out of the bookstore, his rapid fire line of questions ricocheted from major to address to those disgusting things called grits, and Pippin had never eaten takeout alone again.

Movement in the store window caught Pippin’s attention. _Oh, god, Merry._ He was the one more seriously injured, the one who had taken the blows meant for Pippin’s back when he had dared to complain, the one who refused the water until Pippin had drunk his fill the one time it had been offered. Merry’s plight by far the worse, yet there he was sending out strength while being shoved down the aisle by the head orc, Lurtz. Merry held on to Pippin’s gaze as long as possible until a Power Ade display blocked their view. Only a brief look from 100 yards away, but Pippin’s body warmed to the love conveyed.

Not love at first sight, of course, but more of a growing, gradual kind of awareness of each other, a lazy Sunday afternoon kind of love, easy, friendly, uncomplicated. Not casual by any means, but being with Merry made Pippin feel like he was pulling on his favorite pair of old jeans, surrounding himself in the familiarity of comfort. The first time they kissed, to Pippin the most natural thing in the world, did not send him into a spiraling vortex of angst about his sexual orientation. How could it? Yes, he liked women, had quite the stud reputation back home, and no, he had never entertained the thought of sex with another man until that first time with Merry. Even then, while they rumpled up the sheets bringing each other to shout expletives of pleasure, the thought of being gay, or bi even, had never occurred to Pippin. It was Merry after all, who lay sweat sticky beside him Merry who made him giggle and snort coke cola out his nose, Merry who listened to him complain and who picked up the pieces after his mistakes; Merry who wanted Pippin by his side just as much as he wanted Merry. That’s the way things were meant to be: no fireworks, no grand revelations, no mountain top experiences. Just them, Merry and Pippin, together. He often marveled at the depth of devotion between Sam and Frodo, like two old souls who have spent an eternity finding each other lifetime after lifetime. Never felt jealousy over their connection, though, never compared their relationships. No point really. Pippin summed everything up thusly: Frodo and Sam needed each other to live, while he and Merry needed one another to smile.

Jerked up cruelly without a word, arm wrenched, joint popping, Pippin actually missed being called maggot. At least that way he had a name, albeit a disgusting one, but anyone with a name existed. Without maggot, he ceased to be, slipped down into nonentity status that made the fear and humiliation harder to bear. He watched while Merry doled out the drinks and snacks he had lugged from the store while Lurtz, carrying nothing, walked behind, shoving a bag of Funguns in his mouth. Pippin frowned - _That’s new -_ Merry limped from orc to orc, from Harley to Harley, the last drink delivered to the one standing guard on the grass, and this was the closest the friends had been since this nightmare started. Pip instinctively moved to touch his lover, but a sharp look and shake of Merry’s head stayed his hand. _OK, no touching then. Be content just to be near him._

“Shit! I want Sprite Not a fucking Sunkist!”

“The other one took it,” Merry made a point of not looking at Pippin, “Go argue with him.”

“Shithead! Give me my fucking Sprite!”

_We’re alone_. Pippin’s body trembled with the aching to touch, to hold, to wrap his body around, to be safe. However, Merry never turned to look at him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders a hard line.

“Merry -”

“Don’t, Pip! Don’t come near me! If we just stand here, maybe they’ll let us alone for a minute. Just stand there.”

So hard, so fucking hard to be this close and not – but, he followed Merry’s instructions. “You’re limping.”

A shoulder shrug. “Got in the way of Lurtz’s boot, that’s all. Listen, Pip, whatever you do, don’t say anything about the Ring.”

“Frodo’s Ring?”

“They think we have it, and it’s the only thing keeping us alive. No talk about the Ring, OK?”

“Yes, Merry.” A voice break. “Merry, I -”

“I know, Pip. Me, too.”

The fighting over the Sprite grew heated with all the orcs’ attention focused on the two wrestling in the middle of the parking lot. A chancey step backwards, and they were within arm’s reach.

“Pip, don’t want any arguments on this, you hear?”

“Arguments on what?”

“If you see a chance to escape, get the hell away, don’t worry about me, just go.”

Horrified, Pippin reached out to brush fingertips against Merry’s back. “Not without you, Merry! No fucking way!”

“Yes, way, Peregrin! I want you to leave if you have the chance. Just leave.”

“Don’t be a fucking martyr, Meriadoc.”

The brawl now had more involved in the punching then stood watching, and this miracle couldn’t be squandered. Another step, a turn, and they were together. . “I mean this, Pip,” Merry grabbed his lover’s hand, “you get an out, take it. I’m going to do the same.”

Pippin squeezed hard. “You’d leave me to them?”

“Damn straight.”

“Bullshit. Together. In or out, we’re together.”

Damn the consequences, Merry rushed forward throwing his mouth on Pippin’s. The kiss held no sexual pleasure, not meant to. The kiss a desperate act to touch, to feel, to connect. Merry needed this to give him courage. The kiss brief, but the meaning clear.

“Love you, Pip.”

Merry was saying good-bye.

“Merry, don’t do it.”

But, he did. Merry limped right by the dog pile of orcs, by the row of motorcycles, by the pay phones and vacuum/air machine. That’s when Lurtz looked up from the brawl to notice Merry’s little constitutional. Four more steps and Merry was hit from behind, knocked down. No one looked at Pippin, all the attention focused on Merry, every orc, even the store clerk stayed riveted to how one small man could kick and scream so and keep five huge ones occupied. Pippin went unnoticed. He could turn and run. He could run, hide, and get away from the kicks and punches, get out to safety, get away and live. Merry had disappeared under a sea of orcs, their grunts of rage telling Pippin the gruesome story. _I could just go, do what Merry had asked, begged me to do. I’m free._

Pippin did not hesitate.

“Hey! Hey, you! Stop that! Hey, shitheads! Forget about me?”

_In or out, Merry, we’re together_.

 

 

*****

 

 

Guess there was something about a pack of guys all 7’ and above with no necks, black eyes, shaved heads, scraggly teeth wearing leather adorned with a large white hand and riding motorcycles that put people off. The rest stop on 78 right before exit #173 full when the orc brigade rumbled in, now stood deserted. Only on the road since the Kwikee Mart for an hour, Lurtz had suddenly announced he needed to call the boss. Loud bitching about further delays abounded, but Lurtz ignored them all, striding off to find the Wi-Fi hotspot.

“Got to go to the bathroom.”

Pippin’s driver didn’t even bother to turn around. “Piss in your pants.”

“OK, but that also means I piss on the bike seat.”

Hauled up by his collar, Pippin had push shove help stumbling to the restroom.

Typical rest stop, smelled of old urine and feet, corners crowded with trash. Pip made a move to enter one of the stalls, and found himself shoved toward the brown stained urinals instead.

“Go there.”

“OK, it won’t meet all my needs, but I you want to watch…”

His chin collided with the stall door as he was tossed inside.

“What’s taking you so long?” His orc grumbled after several minutes of waiting.

“A diet of water and nothing doesn’t agree with me.”

“Shit faster, maggot.”

An order he would get around to sometime.

Sudden loud, nasty voices, however, did hurry Pippin to finish his business. He pulled the stall door open and nearly threw up. Before him one orc, no name, had Merry in a choke hold from behind, backed up against the wall while another no named orc fumbled with the buttons on his jeans. Every time Merry moved, the third no named orc shoved a fist to his stomach. Conscious of the prying eyes of the public at the store, Lurtz had reined in his troops before too many blows had connected. All alone in the bathroom, however, no one around to witness and Merry would be getting what he deserved for his little stunt now.

“NO! Take me! Me! Me instead!” Pippin pushed his way between the leering orcs, confronting the one on his knees in front of Merry. “Don’t touch him anymore. You want something, take it from me instead.”

“No, Pip,” Merry’s protest barely wheezed out.

Black eyes trawled up and down Pippin’s slight body. Condescending laughter. “Hardly worth my time, you little runt. But, you may be good for a snack.” He snapped his fingers and the just a body exchange was quick.

“No! Don’t touch him!”

“Get him out - wait!” The kneeling orc’s flash of vile inspiration “Bring him here. I want him watching while I do this, watching while I suck off his little bitch.”

He fought furiously, but Merry’s captors held him tight. “No, Pip, no!”

Find something to focus on, a focal point, that’s it, find a focal point and concentrate on that. Heard his older sister talk about her Lamaze class and for some oddball reason as his jeans were roughly unbuttoned and yanked down to his ankles, the memory of his very pregnant sister sitting on the floor of their living room, surrounded by pillows, panting and staring at a picture of Johnny Depp a viscerally hilarious memory . The concept was to draw your mind away from the pain to a tiny spot, a spot that brought you joy. Pearl had chosen Captain Jack Sparrow, Pippin found Merry’s eye.

_Bad idea._

He didn’t know what hurt worse, the arm about his neck cutting off all but the smallest possibility of air passing in and out of his lungs, the hands totally devoid of any emotion squeezing his thighs, or the look on Merry’s face. After the hands moved to his crotch grabbing at his flaccid skin and he rasped in pain, Pippin decided the winner would have to be Merry’s face - guilt and self-hatred and failure found a home amid the bruises and cuts, and he tried to send back an explanation as to why he endured this humiliation – _for you, to save you from further harm. Love you so goddamn much, Merry. Let me do this for you._

After several minutes of the kneeling orc rubbing his cock as if a stain that needed removing, Pippin’s erection appeared half-hearted at best.

“Look at that there!” The orc gave a hard flick. “Hardly worth all the trouble. Can’t see how that puny thing could keep anyone satisfied. How about you, Hero?” He turned his black eyes on Merry. “This little bit keep you satisfied?”

“Answer him!” Holding arms tightened

“Yes! Yes, he satisfies me very nicely, thank you!”

Despite the deplorable situation in which he found himself, and the duress under which Merry confessed, Pippin took some pride at having pleased at least one person in the room.

“Maybe it just needs a little coaxing, that’s all.” Foul smelling mouth yawned wide and clamped down over Pippin’s cock.

Trying to climb to get away from the rancid mouth, Pippin pushed up on tiptoes, closing his short air supply off completely. A filthy hand on his hip kept him pinned down, while the orc behind began to thrust upwards, the bulge pushing into Pippin’s back. The jeers and shouts from the audience, to go “Faster! Harder!” insufficient in drowning out the fetid grunts in his ear.

_The most inept blowjob I ever received and that counts Brittany Asher from the fifth grade. And I’m thinking about that little piece of naughty under the bleachers during the Memorial Day assembly now, NOW, when I’m -_ Good idea, though, because thinking of Brittany, or the first possum he ever hit with his car, the whump-thump as it died under his tire, or the shouts of his parents arguments behind their closed bedroom door, or seeing his friend near death lying on a table in a boarded up dive and all the other horrible things that had ever happened to him a much better focal point than the horriblest ever list topper - Merry’s face as he became hard under those jagged teeth.

“Now that’s more like it!”

He did not want to be Pippin anymore, Peregrin Took not his name. Not even maggot. He _wanted_ to be a nobody, a nothing, ‘cause a nothing did not count, a nothing did not exist, a nothing did not find pleasure in being raped.

“Seems your little bitch here really likes this, Hero.”

“Stop it! Fuckers, stop hurting him!”

Pippin could only listen to Merry straining against the arms holding him, to his groans when yet another blow struck home, what with his vision field narrowed to the dirty, cracked ceiling of the bathroom, his head now tilted viciously back, mouth forced open by a putrid tongue.

_Why?_ That’s all he wanted to know at this point as he felt his balls tighten reading his body for release, _why are they doing this?_ The kick, punches, shoves and slaps not adequate? The insults, taunts, jeers and crude remarks not sufficient? The fact they held his life in their hands not a big enough turn on? _Why?_ Degradation on this level had to come from somewhere, some motivation pushing them to humiliate and torture. _What was the fucking reason?_ The answer came to him, the answer so simple, bleeding out any shred of innocence that still lingered in his heart. _Because they_

“Here. My turn!”

Pippin opened eyes he didn’t realize were closed when his attacker was shoved away, the cool air in the rest room drying the spit that trickled down his thighs. The orc behind continued to play, though, free hand scratching chest, seizing his nipple. In the ensuing tussle to see who would be next, he found Merry’s eyes, red rimmed from crying. _I’m sorry, Merry, didn’t mean to do it, didn’t mean to like, it. I didn’t! I fucking don’t! Just can’t help it. Please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, Merry. So sorry!_

A sob wrenched disbelief and joy when Merry sent not a look of recrimination or betrayal over unwanted, unbidden reaction, but of understanding and acceptance. _Oh, Merry!_

Brief respite over, however, the argument over, the winner knelt before Pippin smacking his lips greedily. “Love the taste of man flesh.”

Merry’s gaze steeled Pippin for another assault, this one tight and fast and the edge close again when a wetness spread down his back, the orc behind him stilling his thrusts with a puling whimper.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Immediately released, Pippin collapsed to the floor, gagging in the foul smelling air, sweet after his near asphyxiation, and like a broken toy, he crawled away using only fear and disgust to guide him, the bile heaved up stomach’s only contents.

“Saruman said unspoiled. Does this look unspoiled to youse?” Bruised battered Merry grabbed harsh for Lurtz’s illustrative example. “Get the fuck outta here, everybody! _NOW_!”

Hauled up by his hair, with jeans still around his ankles, Pippin was dragged out of the bathroom, feet knocking empty Sprite bottles under the sinks, and sending a discarded lipstick tube skittering into the corner.

“No more stops, Boss wants us there yesterday!” Motors roared to life and the orcs pulled out on to Highway 78 heading straight for the border then south.

Although nakedness somehow now covered with filthy denim, the seat cut into Pippin’s brutalized groin. He stunk of sweat, spit and semen, hair plastered with his own vomit, body broken and spirit smashed.

_The Boss said unspoiled._

And The Boss wanted The Ring. The Ring. All of this, what he and Merry had suffered, came down to the Ring. The Ring everyone assumed they carried. The Ring that hung around someone else’s neck.

_Sweet Jesus! Will we survive Isengard!_


	2. Chapter 2

The screen door slapped back to its frame, echoing down the long porch. In the distance the dogs barked, chasing away some interloper that only they could see and hear. The moon hung low in the early October sky bringing an eerie light to the yard, stark rectangles cast by the endless white fence cutting across the drive. Hoping the mindless drudgery of mucking out the stalls would banish the turmoil in her mind and heart, if only for a little while, Eowyn fled the big house.

Soft whinnies of the finest thoroughbreds in the state of Pennsylvania greeted as she slipped into the warm building, the subdued lighting of bedtime a welcome sight, one long familiar and comforting. Inhaling deeply the heady aromas of horse and leather, Eowyn allowed her body to relax, her mind to calm.

More at home here than in the big house, Edoras, across the way, Eowyn had always come to be with the horses in times of trouble. Simple things, like a ‘C’ on a chemistry test and not getting the dress she wanted for Homecoming had found her oiling the saddles in the tack room. Failing the driver’s test, twice, and being dumped by the captain of the football team right before prom brought her to comb and curry every horse stabled. The death of her father, then watching her mother just fade away, had her huddled in a corner of a stall for days. Only her uncle’s daily visits to her hiding place with his soothing words and gentle love had drawn her out of the despair, his arms there to hold her as she cried.

Eowyn came to the stables tonight again to escape the troubles of her life. Only this time, her uncle would not be following, he was unable to even remember her name.

_“He’s useless! A doddering old fool who refuses to see the truth - that Rohan is crumbling down around his ears and he’s not lifting a finger to do anything about it!”_

Her brother’s anger cut a jagged edge not just for the words, but because Eomer had spoken the truth. Their uncle, Theoden, once a vital, virile man who had managed the sprawling horse farm of Rohan with a single, strong hand, now spent his days in a rocking chair slumped and drooling, staring blankly out the shuttered window of his bedroom. Most days, she couldn’t stomach looking at her uncle, preferring to spend her time aiding her brother in the farm’s business. Recently, however, Eomer spent more and more time out on the farm riding from one disaster to another, never able to completely repair the damage or stay ahead of the saboteurs. That left Eowyn here at home to deal with the bulk of the paperwork and put her in daily contact with Grima.

The volatile stock market had Theoden wanting to divest the farm’s assets so as not to be caught flat should the economy tank again – business was just climbing back out of the hole of 2009 – so on a trusted neighbor’s recommendation, Grima, and his risible (and perhaps prophetic) last name, Wormtongue, had joined Rohan’s payroll as financial advisor. A month later, Theoden began to fail. Coincidence never able to convince Eowyn the two were unrelated.

A cold fish lying on the ice, one dead eye staring up through the supermarket’s display case. Grima Wormtongue to a tee. And when he wasn’t stalking Eowyn, milky eyes telling the perverted tales of soul’s desire, he was slinking about, skulking and spying, all reports of innocence becoming context twisted screeds poured accepted into Theoden’s shriveled ear. For safety’s sake, she had kept her distance, and thinly veiled disgust between them, even banishing the mere mention of that name within hearing, the choice of comfort over her uncle’s fading health still tweaked her conscious to selfish.

The frightened nickering of one of her favorites drew Eowyn deeper into the stable. Opening the stall door, she stepped in and saw the horse pacing mindlessly, starting at phantoms hiding in the dark.

“Shhh, now,” calm reached out to run a hand across the quivering flank, “Shhh, good boy.” The horse stretched his neck to her touch. “That’s right, quiet.” She whispered comfort, while the gelding nuzzled her neck, the soft hairs against tickling her cheek, his breath blowing down her collar. “I know, I miss him, too, Brego.”

Whoever said animals were dumb had never taken the time to truly look into their eyes. Brego’s eyes, as she ran her hand down the white blaze of his nose, told the story of pain and loss. It had been three months since the accident, three months since Brego had last seen his friend, and the horse still grieved.

Raised from the moment of his birth by the loving hands of her cousin, Theodred, Brego had never been destined for the track. Small, somewhat chunky, his gait irregular enough at an early age to stop any money being spent on his training. Somehow Theodred had seen something special in that squat colt as he trotted along the wide expanse of Rohan’s pastures with the other yearlings, though, and when all the others were sold off to other farms and trainers, Brego had remained. And  Brego would only allow Theodred to ride him, which, of course suited Theodred just fine for he had no desire to ride any other horse, the pair traveling the vastness of Rohan’s property with grace and style: horse and man as one.

“You would have kept him safe, I know, you would have brought him home alive.”

A report of vandalism had come from the radio, another one on the ever increasing list of incidents, and Theodred had jumped up immediately racing for the stable. The sighting this time only minutes old; maybe, if he hurried, he would have a shot at catching the culprits. Unable to take his beloved Brego out on this run, a stone bruise to right forelock had the gelding laid up for a few days, Theodred instead rode out on one of the farm’s companion horses. Not until dusk was he found, crushed under that gentle dapple-grey, down in a hollow littered with garbage and excrement. The poor horse, two legs broken, had to be put down. Theodred never regained consciousness, and Theoden never went to his son’s bedside.

_“They’re coming, Uncle. They are coming and you are doing nothing!”_

_“Perhaps because there is nothing that needs doing. Isengard has always been an agreeable neighbor, recognized property lines, shared resources.”_

_“Only now they cut the surrounding forests, burn the pasture land to clear it for god knows what. There’s even talk about landowners being forced to sell to Saruman. He won’t be satisfied until he owns the whole valley!”_

Condolences had dripped from trusted neighbor Saruman’s lips, the tragedy of losing one so young, the death of Theoden’s heir, his offers of help and guidance in their sad hour given to Eomer and Eowyn while the old man’s eyes greedily coveted their land. That’s where the rift was the largest between Eomer, the one who managed the farm, and Grima, the one who controlled the farm’s owner. Eomer saw Isengard as a disease, like a blight killing and withering the land. Grima held steadfastly to Saruman’s friendship, steering their almost completely senile uncle to the time he would sign on the dotted line and hand the lands to Isengard that had been in the Riddermark family for hundreds of years. Tonight’s argument one of the worst.

_“Don’t speak so harshly! You know your uncle’s not well. Any stress could send him back to his bed.”_

_“And that would suit your plans very nicely, wouldn’t it, Grima? Tell me, how much is Saruman paying you, huh? What’s the going price nowadays for betrayal and sabotage, hmm? How much does he slip into your grimy, little pocket each week?”_

_“How dare you accuse me of such things! I am now, and always will be, a good and loyal employee of Rohan. You step over the line, Eomer, when you point your accusing finger at me.”_

_“And whose line is it, Grima? Who drew that line? My uncle or Saruman?”_

_“You have no right to -”_

_“No right? No right! That is my uncle who -”_

_“Sits here like a doddering old fool. Isn’t that what you called me, nephew?_

_“Uncle -”_

_“No! Don’t talk about rights to me, the one who gave those to you in the first place. You will hold your tongue and stop these wild accusations against Grima.”_

_“Uncle, if you’d only listen -”_

_“NO! I will not listen to any more of your lies!”_

A coward to desert her brother to face Grima alone, but tonight Eowyn had reached her bullshit limit. The sound of her uncle’s shaky voice turning against his own nephew in favor of that noxious worm had been more than she could stomach.

“Not to worry, though, tomorrow will be SOS.”

She left Brego soothed, munching a special treat of oats, to check on the other horses. They all stood quietly in happy ignorance of the storm brewing around them. “All happy, except…”

The last stall on the left lay open and empty, a mystery as of yet solved internally or by the local police. Two nights ago, without tripping the alarms, slipping in unnoticed, someone had broken into their stable and stolen away the pride of Rohan Farm. The thieves were indeed knowledgeable, Eowyn had to give them that, for of all the horses stabled here, they had taken the most valuable. Standing just outside the empty stall, she had to marvel at the thieves’ skill: no trace evidence, no footprints, no marks of entry had been found. It almost seemed as if a ghost had come in that night and taken the great stallion away. Either that, impossible though it may be, the decision to leave rested with Shadowfax alone.

“Eowyn.”

“Who is -” Irrational fear placed Grima in the stable’s dark, hatred of horses overcome by sick lust for – “Shit. Don’t do that!” Only her brother striding closer, Eomer and brooding anger. “What’s wrong now?”

“Do I really need to answer that question?” Right on by straight to the tack room.

She ran to follow him only to be nearly knocked over by his return, saddle and bridle in hand. “Eomer, where are you going? What’s happened? Tell me!”

“Uncle has decided that the attacks on our northern borders need personal attention,” next a mount, Hasufel lead out of her stall, “I’ve been elected to go.”

“Well, you’ll be back in a few days, surely.”

He feed the bit into his horse’s mouth with expert fingers. “It has also been decided that a constant presence up there might deter further attacks.”

That did not sound good. “Constant, as in more than a few days?”

Blanket on first, then the finely tooled western saddle was hefted up on to the back of the huge bay. “Constant as in until further notice. I’m staying up north.”

“But, but what,” the worst possible news at the worst possible time, “what am I supposed to do without you here?”

“What you’ve always done,” a grunt pulled the cinch tight, “take charge and run everyone ragged trying to keep up.”

“But, I can’t, not by my -”

“Yes, you can, Wyn, better than anyone else here. You must, ‘cause Uncle’s not – well, you know.” Travel bags collected and thrown over Hasufel’s rump, bedroll tied behind the saddle. “ _You’ve_ got to keep the farm going.”

No, she had to keep _him_ from going. “Still don’t understand what happened, why you have to leave.”

Horse led down the stable to the big door at the far end. “I insulted Grima by speaking the truth, and Uncle kicked me out.”

“Well, then talk to him, apologize, say anything!” Near panic produced almost begging, Eowyn not proud of either one. “Mer, please don’t go!”

“Hey, come here.” Brother and sister in a fierce hug sharing strength and love. “Got no choice, I _must_ go. But, maybe this is a good thing.”

The supply of that running low around the place for quite a while, and now the glue keeping her world together was leaving. “How can it be, you’re going away.”

“If I stay up there long enough I might be able to catch those bastards in the act, gather some hard evidence against Saruman, something I can take to the police, anything that would finally convince Uncle Theoden.”

Perfectly logical, immensely practical, Eomer ever the lemonade out of life’s shit-storm maker. “God, I hate it when you’re right.”

“Me, always right, you should be used to that by – OW!” Eomer jumped back, the pinch tweaked in that one spot for maximum sting. “And I hate that!”

A sibling’s satisfied smirk. “That’s right, you do.”

Big door dragged open letting in the chill, and the still at it barking. With a master’s grace, Eomer stepped into the stirrup, up, over and firmly in the saddle. Reins in left hand spoke his silent instructions to Hasufel. "Weather's mild, at least. No frost yet."

“Please be careful, Mer. You’ll be all alone up there.”

He smiled down at his sister. “Don’t worry, there’s already a patrol out. I plan to meet up with them, so I will have the company of ten other people who smell like horse and who haven’t bathed in days.”

The smile returned. “Sounds like heaven.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” Hasufel danced about, anxious to hit the trail, but Eomer guided the mare back to his sister, one more worry yet to be spoken. “Wyn, about Grima, you -”

“Will kick his ass if he tries anything. Don’t worry.” A leg squeeze for reassurance meant brother and sister both. “Besides, I’m not the one who will be without the Dish.”

“You keep track of how the Phils are doing in post season, won’t you?”

“Now, that’s the game with the puck, right?”

Laughing, Eomer kicked Hasufel into motion, cantering down the drive. “Love you, Wyn!”

“The same, Mer!” Her voice carried away by the wind.

With her brother now completely absent, Eowyn’s job of holding things together just became much more than daunting, it became down right impossible. That did not mean she would not try, though. Familial obligations aside, she had over a hundred horses that would be relying on her for their very lives, and she would do what was necessary to insure their continued health and well-being.

_You’re up to this, right, Wyn?_

Days filled with the back breaking work of running a horse farm the size of Rohan, nights with paperwork and inventory and supplies and worry over running a horse farm the size of Rohan.

_Of course, I am! Yes, I am! I -_

A shiver, although not the chilly air goose bumping to her skin.

_He’s watching me._

Eowyn turned to look back at Edoras. There, edge of the porch, shielded by night’s anonymity, a small, hunched figure hovered, and its colorless lipped leer scrambled her back to barn’s safety.

The Moon well abed before porch lay empty.

 

*****

 

“Are you sure you should eat that?”

Gimli looked from the bean burrito in his hand to Legolas and Craisians across the table. First bite large and sloppy. “Now, that’s good Mexican.”

Disgust sipped Dasani. “That review based on the Taco Bell scale, no doubt.”

“Nothing,” a swung up foot rattled the molded yellow bench, Aragorn’s added to the holding Gimli already weight testing the wall attached plastic of the Dunland Kwikee Mart, “though the night cashier did say something about a bunch of bounty hunters.”

“Bounty hunters?”

“The story told to Brice over there.” All three turned to the front counter, and the pimply faced redhead flashed braces, waving. “Big, ugly, mean, riding Harleys. Ten, maybe fifteen.”

Legolas carefully zipped the top of his snack bag before slipping it into jacket pocket should become peckish later. “Could be the Uruk-hai we’re tracking.”

“Big, ugly, Harleys.Nah, you think?” Napkin swiped away green chili sauce. “What about Merry and Pip? ”

“The two hardened criminals in the bounty hunters custody, you mean?” Red Bull downed in one chug. “Like the one who must have put up one hell of a fight being captured, the one who looked beaten to a bloody pulp?”

Gimli stopped mid chew. “Which?”

Index finger to right eyebrow.

“Merry.”

“And Pippin?” Cap screwed on tight, water bottle secured for future use. “Any mention of Pippin?”

“Night guy could maybe have seen someone else outside after the fight.”

"Fight?” Gimli’s belch aromatic. “Excuse me. There was a fight?”

“Over a Sprite. Or Sunkist, or – doesn’t matter.” A stubbly-face scrub of frustration. “Important point, they all rode out of here two hours ago.”

“And which direction?”

A shrug Aragorn’s answer.

“Night cashier remembered piercings but not direction?” Unused napkins stored in pants pocket, just in case. “Spotty observation skills, I’d say.”

“Or Brice has a shitty memory. Either way, we’re still only guessing here.”

“If the Uruk-hai had doubled back, we would know already.” Paper oozing cheesy brown crumpled and tossed away, “So, I say we continue west as before, toward Isengard.”

“Agreed, though two hours behind does not -”

“Bode well for our friends. Gentlemen.”

Brice waved the trio of weary travelers farewell, as the wind shifted, a bitter slice across the dull landscape. Their motorcycles, mud splashed and still warm, roared to life, uncertainty as guide, Aragorn pulling out of the Kwikee Mart, Legolas banking in behind.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure. Just go!”

“Because I’m not stopping again.”

 

 

*****

 

 

_Thank fucking god for Xbox 360!_

Universally loathed by over achievement expectant parents and free time monopolizing professors alike, that small red dot dancing across the helmet in from recognized because of a master’s level _Halo_ education. Video games saved Merry’s life.

Just over the Pennsylvania border, road construction on Highway 78 had sent them on a miles out of the way detour to the pocked and stony two-lane that wound its way through thick woods that still gripped stingy the early morning fog. Wet pine and dark soil spun passed the motorcycles speeding furiously despite the treacherous road, and this delay had sent an already irate Lurtz ballistic with two of his troop landing silenced in a roadside ditch.

The first shot he did not even hear, only watched to his right orc slump forward, the bike canting off in a lazy arc. No time for further examination, his driver the next to go down - the weight of the dead body, slung forward by the force of the bullet, pushed back into Merry by the wind. With hands tied, he had few options open to him, and unfortunately all of them included falling off the out of control bike.

_One…_

He wanted to see brown before the crash, figuring forest floor more forgiving than asphalt.

_Two…_

He wanted to be a body in motion, thus remaining that way instead of crushed by dying orc or scorching engine.

_Three…_

He wanted to be anywhere, facing the judging disappoint of parents even, instead of forced to play this no-win game.

_Ready…and g -_  

Not ready. Rock and hard place slammed up a firm greeting, stuttering and skidding, mouth full of dirt, lungs void of breath, orc and captive rolling over and over, stopped by tree stump intervention. As consciousness recoiled from agony, though, he was awarded a consolation prize – the  motherfucking orc who had raped Pip lay beside with a bullet through its brain.

 

 

*****

 

 

“I told him it was a mistake.”

“Should have done this before we left the store.”

“Told him that, too. Craisian?”

Offer declined in favor of the continued pacing in front of the steel caged and locked up tight out-of-order vending machines. “This is time, time we, time Merry and Pippin don’t have if west isn’t the correct -”

“Aragorn!”

Pacing stopped by the debris clogged drinking fountain. “Was that -”

“Aragorn!” A tile echoed shout. “Legolas! Get in here!”

“That was –”

“Shit.”

A mad dash to the men’s restroom.

“Gimli?”

“In here.” Familiar gruff voice from the third of five stalls. “You’ve got to see this!”

Legolas looked at Aragorn who looked at Legolas. “Don’t think I really want to.”

“Ha, ha. Don’t want you to look at _that_.”

“Thank, Eru.”

“Just come in -” A better idea. “No, wait. Aragorn, you on one side, Legolas in the other stall. Stand on the toilet and look down into mine.”

Aragorn glanced at Legolas again, then rolled his eyes. Not known for his sense of humor, Gimli would certainly not waste their precious minutes on a stupid practical joke. “This had best be good, Gimli, because I have no desire to look down on your hairy white - damn!”

Squatting Gimli beamed. “Told you.”

Legolas peered down from the other stall. “Oh, my.”

There on the inside of the stall door of the grimy bathroom of the rest stop on Highway 78 right after Exit #173 a picture of the leaf clasp given to all by Galadriel drawn in exacting detail in bright red lipstick.

“The bean burrito accepts your apology.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Pippin breathed shallowly through his mouth trying desperately not to gag as blood dripped down the side of his head. From the orc above him, tormentor in life, now his corpse cover. The thin line, still warm, followed the path made by the contours of his face, and dribbled down across his cheek then into the hollow of his throat. Unable to move for fear of revealing himself, he lay perfectly still under the orc he had thrown across his body, playing as dead as all the rest of the bodies on this deserted road.

The shots, fired from what could only be snipers hidden in the trees, had burst forth without warning. Arms bound around the torso of his driver, Pippin had had little choice in his dismount, a vault over the handlebars when the front tire found the ditch on the right side of the road. The dead orc had broken the fall, but it was now Pippin’s ass-waving hello out there to the guys with the guns and a penchant for shooting anything that moved. With bullets bouncing off dirt, tarmac and living beings, feet dug in and, praying for assassin attention focused elsewhere, he jiggled, he cajoled, he shoved and bullied and made all kinds of bargains with a wide variety of deities, at last a good enough success achieved, his smaller frame hopefully hidden from view by the side leaning body.

Current situation’s irony annoyingly poignant, that which had singularly sought his extinction, and desire to escape from mere seconds old, now sheltered his continued existence. But, at this moment as point blank range cleaned up the few orc still alive loose threads, even with Merry’s whereabouts and condition unknown, Pippin was exceedingly thrilled to be irony’s bitch, and here in his makeshift rabbit hole he’d stay, still, waiting for silence, dreaming of home, as black blood trickled into his mouth.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Going back!”

The sudden emergence of a motorcycle into the east-bound traffic startled a few drivers, and angered a few more. Legolas ignored the fingers, the mouthed expletives and pushed his vehicle faster. He never looked back for Aragorn, confident the other bike would follow him back across the median.

He knew it, wasn’t right, he _knew_ it. They had missed something, and to continue on Highway 78 would be leaving their friends behind. Logic had dictated a precise line – from Merry and Pippin with false belief of The Ring to Saruman at Isengard in the west – and logic the fabric woven of Legolas’ life. Yet, as the signs announcing the Bethlehem city limits breezed by, long muted right side brain had bellowed, and, just as the leaf drawn stall door had been a clean sign, his inexplicable ‘Wrong way, stupid!’ sharp gut clench must not be ignored.

A hard sell, Legolas also knew, this little detour of his, retracing an already driven path, against the potential of an enormous waste of precious time. And as the other man pulled up beside, jaw’s teeth grinding set below the visor was a good indicator of his backtracking opinion. An economy of movement indicated where he wanted Legolas to go – off at the next exit – then Aragorn raced ahead, once more leading the way.

And he was waiting, helmet removed, Easter Island faced, on the far side of the exit intersection when Legolas arrived.

“Not my idea, Aragorn,” Gimli absolved participation even before they had pulled to a stop, “He just took off without a word.”

At least Aragorn refrained for Legolas to remove his helmet before pouncing. “You want to tell me why this little stunt?”?”

“Aragorn, I had this -”

“Not only was it dangerous and could have gotten both you and Gimli killed,” the shout heard above the speeding traffic below, “It’s wasting valuable time that Merry and Pippin may not have.”

How do you explain the inexplicable? “They didn’t go that way,” Legolas pointed west, “They’re not headed that way anymore.”

“Do you mind telling me how you know that? What, did you see something with that amazing eyesight of yours that both Gimli and I missed?”

OK, Aragorn was pissed, he got it, but that was a cheap shot, physical superiority not often a bragging point with Legolas. Unless it was Gimli. “No, just a hunch, that’s all.”

“A hunch dragged us off the highway. OK, great. There’s three directions left.” Aragorn spun, outstretched arms indicating the expanse of Pennsylvania around them. “So, which way now?”

Ears turned a bright pink, embarrassed for he had no answer. “I don’t know.”

“For pity sake, Legolas! Do you realize the time wasted on this?”

“I apologize for my rash actions, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt Merry and Pippin did not continue west on this highway.” Intuition’s conviction spoke from the heart. “I know this, Aragorn, I KNOW this to be the truth.”

Being a by-the-gut kinda’ guy, Aragorn could certainly appreciate, applaud even, his usually scientific method friend’s jump to the hunch side. But with two lives hanging out there, not to mention humanity’s very future, he just had to take the piss out of Legolas’ lousy personal growth timing. “OK, I believe you, but that still does not answer the question of which way from here. We cannot afford to run about like this, blindly. Merry and Pippin cannot afford our chasing dreams.”

“Don’t you think I know -”

In the distance, an all too familiar sound popped.

“Wait,” Gimli stopped fake ignoring the conversation, “was that gunfire?”

“From over there,” a side road, a two-laner, that disappeared into the overhanging forest of pines.

“Think that answers our question of which way.”

A rush to the motorcycles, helmets on, engines roaring. “If this turns out to be right, Legolas, I will owe you a beer every day for the next five years!”

Crossing back into Pennsylvania on the county road, following close, Gimli clutching behind, his stomach twisted, entire chest contracted with an urgency to get there now, must be there now! Now, or it may be too late! With premonition guiding once more, Legolas swung around Aragorn, pushing up to 90.

“Those beers are Merry and Pippin’s when we find them!”

_If_ they found them.

 

*****

 

“No, no, no! It’s all in the timing!”

“But, if your fly’s not appealing -”

“Since when do trout have an aesthetic?”

“Got to get noticed first, got to get their attention.”

“That’s what I’m saying! Cast, then flick. Draw them in, fool them into biting. Cast, then flick. Cast, then flick.”

“But, if you’re flicking with nothing -”

“And that’s why Mickey here sleeps alone every night.”

Coffee snorted out noses all around, the circle of men sharing both joke and commiseration. Their campsite compact, five sleeping bags, Coleman stove, a smattering of lanterns adding a pale battery powered white to fire’s umber glow. Breakfast, hot dogs burnt bubbly on sticks over the fire and hashbrowns skilleted semi-raw on the kerosene stove, had filled bellies with, if not culinary perfection, then at least comfort. The ground dry, the air just a hair nippy, their forest envelope quiet and secure. All in all, quite a pleasant morning to be roughing it.

“Ha ha. When was the last time youse had a date?”

“With a woman? Let’s see…nineteen -”

“What was that?”

Pleasant no longer.

“And that.”

Echoing all around – gunfire.

“Shit! Up, everyone up! Let’s go!”

Men scrambled for gear, stamped into boots, saddles thrown on, fire doused, extinguished, but the rest left to mark the place of their true purpose for being out here.

“Where? Where did it -”

“Over by the East road, I think.”

“Shit, twenty minutes at least.”

The horses shied and shuffled, picking up on their riders’ unease. More shots, now a barrage of sounds, not wished for, yet expected menace and mayhem not close enough.

“No, ten. This way!”

Off the trails, cut straight through, braving the whips of the branches and unsure footing, Eomer nestled rifle across his lap and hoped that time would not be the only thing they saved today.

 

 

*****

 

 

_What was…what is –the fuck is that?!_

Pip grunted as he pushed the now cool body off, traveling with it, eyes skimming the trees for any signs of hostiles. The forest had lain silent for two full counts of a thousand before any thoughts of coming out from under had been entertained, had to be absolutely positive he was truly alone. A third started when some _thing_ had crawled into his shirt.  A flurry of motion, up and over.

“Uh, hello? Anyone…there?”

The forest quiet, the gunmen gone, the orcs dead, and still Pippin could not move, limbs now trapped beneath dead weight. Shimmying up proved a useless activity, arms slipping underneath. Pushing down garnered him better results - the dead orc’s belt buckle, bent odd from the fall, creating the perfect edge to cut his bonds.A few more grunts and Pip’s arms broke free.

“Yes!”

Up on trembling legs to survey his possibly into the fire from pan jumping landscape.

“Goddamn.”

Bodies scattered about him, every last orc shot, every last orc dead. The twisted corpse at his feet received his spat condolences.

“And the Harley you rode in on.”

Exhaustion and terror stumbled across the stained blacktop, Pippin tumbling into death choked ditch where he last saw -

“Merry?”

Silence.

“Merry?”

Silence.

“Merry!”

A frantic search, Pippin’s hands slick with black sticky, digging through twisted limbs, hollow eyes, shoes dripping with mud and offal, pulling and pushing, reeking and retching.

“Merry, where are you?”

One more, always one more body to move, gas from ruptured tanks mixed with rended flesh, one corpse pile over turned, on to the next, bowels emptied, skulls cracked, one more body.

“Goddamnit! If you don’t fucking answer me, I’ll -”

A hand, a small hand, pale and dirty, the very bottom of the very last pile.

“Merry!”

A groan, coughing hack sucking in clean air. “P…Pip?”

And that was it, that was all, everything spent when his everything found, he dropped on the nearest thing, the body of Lurtz, empty. “Oh, Merry.” Hands reached for their match. “I thought – thought that you – you -” Just the feel, watching breath in, breath out, seeing his one good eye swim into focus and recognition return, courage abandoned, and Pippin began to weep. “Oh, Merry.”

His best lopsided smile. “Hey, you.”

“It’s over, they’re dead, we’re alive, god, how the fuck if I – if you – but, god, it’s over, Merry, all fucking – well, shit.”

The tell-tale sounds of motorcycle engines rumbled in the distance.

Friend or foe? Savior or Saruman? Help precisely when they most desperately needed it or precisely what their desperate straits did  not need more of, the last days’ hell? The approaching motorcycles dangled a choice – stay right here and pin hope that it was the cavalry arriving, or keeping minutes old freedom from torturers alive, run and hid on the far side of paranoia? A quick retrospective of their past two weeks experiences – Nazgul, Balrog, Uruk-hai…

“Come on, we’re outta here.”

“What’s…” The struggle to up achieved mostly through friend intervention. “Why…” As if newly discovered, Merry stared surprise at the carnage about his feet. “Who…”

“Don’t know, Merry,” met with a now stationary object, Pippin shoved Merry up out of the ditch and on to the road, “And at this moment, don’t fucking care. Move!”

Intrigued by event’s curious turn, Merry stopped again to stare at the bodies. “He’s dead.” A tap, his foot lolling orc head to an obscene angle. “And he’s dead, too.” Another body, another tap, Merry giggling when black trickled to the ground. “They’re all dead.” Another body, a savage kick, silly smile now a feral snarl. “Motherfucker!” Kick again and again, with heel and heft, “Goddamn you!” Shouts sending the just now returning birds to wing once more. “Goddamn you to fucking hell!”

“Christ, we don’t have time for -” Pippin in shove mode again. “Merry, we’ve got to go.”

“Never again! Never fucking again!”

“Merry, it’s over, over, they -” hand spared from now attempted dragging away duties pointed out the obvious, “– can’t hurt us anymore. But, what’s coming too fucking fast just might, so we’ve got to -”

“No!” Jeans soaked black, the guilt assuaging assaulted continued. “Motherfucker!”

“Goddamnit, Merry, stop!”

“You touch him, you fucking touch him again, I’ll -” down hard, still ravenous, but trapped in weak body, revenge crumpled unsated to the asphalt. “- kill you.”

“Shit.” Like he needed a reminder, the hands, the teeth, trapped and taken, body’s revolting response, filth indelibly branded. “Fucking insane, you know that?”

Once more, Pippin hauled Merry to his feet, this time, however, his grip stayed tight. “Couldn’t let them, won’t touch you again, I promise, sorry, fucking sorry, I should have, my fault, never again.”

“I know, Merry,” a wobbly path around broken bodies, busted bikes, Pippin and Merry, shame and blame, stumbled forward, “me, too.”

“Where are we going?”

Engines, closest now, screaming from just around the bend.

“Away, just fucking a -”

Noise, loud noises, crashing and pounding from the woods, the other side, right where escape was headed.

“Oh, fuck me.”

 

 

 

*****

 

 

Screeching to a halt, Legolas barely missed running over –

A body. Bodies. Surrounded by bodies. Orc bodies. Saruman’s orcs.

“Well, damn. Hunch was right.”

Arriving seconds later, Aragorn sat idling beside surveying the slaughter. “Merry and Pippin?”

“I don’t see -”

“Uh, guys,” Gimli noticed first. “We have -”

A shot rang out over their heads. “Don’t move!” A posse galloping down upon them.

“- company.”

Aragorn did not like the odds. Three men armed with only handguns and a bow that needed a little elbow room to work effectively surrounded by men on horseback all pointing automatic rifles at their vital organs.

“Let me guess,” one rider, hidden by sunglasses and a Phillies ball cap, “you guys have nothing to do with this mess, right?”

“What mess?” Gimli’s play stupid hostile around the edges. “Only just got here, like you.”

“On bikes marked with the White Hand just like the bodies chilling at your feet?”

“Borrowed bikes.”

“Uh huh. Going to try this again, but with less bullshit this time.” The sunglasses guy edged his bay in tighter. “Why are you here?”

Perfect time for some diplomacy. “My name is Aragorn, this is Legolas and Gimli. We are all employees of Arda and friends of the owner of Rohan.”

“Uncle Theoden no longer cares about such things as friendship,” words bitter, though the rider did relax a bit. “Eomer Riddermark, nephew, and I still want to know what you’re doing here.”

“Tracking these orcs,” Aragorn’s hand sweep of the littering of bodies about the road, “They kidnapped two of our friends, and we have been on their trail since New York.”

“A little outside Saruman’s usual territory, but I wouldn’t be surprised by anything thing that bastard did.” Eomer spat on the ground.

“What do you know of Saruman?”

“Only that he’s our neighbor and our worst enemy. Trying to take our lands by sabotage and fear. Been raiding our lands for months, using these foul things for his dirty work.” He spat again, his horse nervously shifting to the left. “Your friends kidnapped, you say?”

“Yes, two men, probably traveling as prisoners.”

Eomer polled his men, but none had seen anything except dead orcs. “Sorry, got nothing. But, knowing Saruman’s grunts like I do, perhaps you should have been checking the ditches all a – what?” An older looking man, red hair flaming astride on a dun ten hander, whispered something in Eomer’s ear. “Nothing? You found nothing we can use?”

“These are Saruman’s for sure, but there’s no property damage, no Rohan connection.”

“Damn! Another waste of time!” He glanced down at the trio. “I am truly sorry for your friends. It seems you have spent all this time chasing the wrong orcs.” Spurring his mare, he made ready to leave the scene. “We ride west.”

Aragorn wasn’t ready to give up the chase just yet. “We’d like to stay and check these further, if you don’t mind!”

Eomer shrugged. “Knock yourselves out. But, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. We seem to be in short supply of it around here.” The horse’s neck bent to the rider’s touch. “Wouldn’t linger too long, however, the police will eventually show up, and your presence here might just lead them to believe you had some hand in all this.”

“But, what about them?” Gimli, stepping over a splatted body, shouted after the horsemen, “Shouldn’t we do something? Hide them? Not leave them out here where god and everybody can see?”

Eomer turned his horse to look back at the question. “Orcs don’t bury their dead. Burn them for all I care. But, don’t pay them a courtesy not shown to your friends.” He followed his riders back into the woods.

“Well, that was fun.”

“And unhelpful. Merry and Pippin’s trail has ended here.”

“Not necessarily.”

Aragorn’s example followed, Legolas and Gimli methodically searching, from orc to orc, from body part to body part, no corpse left unturned, no smashed metal unexamined.

“Nothing.” Gimli swiped black sticky hands on a Legolas offered napkin. “No trace of them at all.”

“Then we look again.”

From orc to orc, no corpse left unturned, no smashed metal unexamined.

“Nothing.” Gimli swiped black sticky hands on the same Legolas offered napkin. “There’s nothing here at all.”

“Look again.”

Orc to orc, no unturned corpse, no unexamined smashed –

“Damn it!” A sharp kick sent a helmet flying, Aragorn’s frustration bubbling over. “And damn you, Saruman!”

“Hate to be the one to say this,” Gimli tossed now completely black blood saturated Legolas offered napkin in the ditch, “but maybe we haven’t found anything because there’s nothing here to find.”

“Except your trash.” Good Ea steward Legolas bent down to pick up after litterer Gimli. “Must you always -” And there it was, mud trampled, polished brown against black, unmistakable craftsmanship sticking out of shoddy workmanship pocket. “Aragorn! Got something!”

Even from across the road he could see what something was. From Galadriel, a knife sheath, like one given to – “Merry!”

“They were here!” Gimli yanked the sheath from Legolas.

“Yes, they were.” Legolas yanked the sheath back.

“OK, they WERE here, but, where are they now?”

Standing in the middle of the road, Aragorn’s turned circle surveyed all the evidence around him. “Uruk-hai…gunfire…Pippin…Merry…looking for…for…which way - there. They fled that way.” The woods just over Legolas’ shoulder.

“Why would they -” Gimli gave the forest primeval a wary eye. “Run away from the road?”

“Orcs on the road,” Aragorn busy divesting the bike of supplies. “Come on.”

“Into the forest?”

“Unless you can devise some other plan of tracking them from here, Gimli,” and now ready to go, “They went into the forest. We go into the forest.”

“But, to where?”

Legolas trotted by Gimli, bow slung over his shoulder. “Where ever Eru guides us.” The pair disappeared among the pines.

“Leave the motorcycles, no compass, no food, no shelter, to schlep through the woods?” The trees were unsympathetic to Gimli’s misgivings. “You guys are crazy!”

One perfectly aimed arrow arched through the air landing in a front tire, the escaping air whistling forlornly.

“Show off!” Duffel bag slung over shoulder, Gimli huffed to follow. “Eru guides us. Yeah right. Well, Eru better have a damn good GPS, that’s all I’m saying.”

Lehigh Sheriff’s department never did solve the mystery of the county road massacre.

 

 

******

 

 

“A couple of more steps, Merry, OK? Just a few more. Want to put some more distance between us and everybody else, OK? We can do this, we can do this, a couple of more steps. Watch that! Right, step around. A few more, Merry, just a few. No, don’t, don’t stop, Merry, please, don’t sit, don’t sit - OK, let’s sit here.”

Here not far enough for Pippin’s tastes, but he didn’t think the other side of the world would be far enough for him. Looking at Merry - skin ashen, breathing shallow, sprawled on the ground oblivious to all but shivering, reopened eye wound dark red ooze – he could go no further. What Merry truly needed was a week’s nap and a doctor. Neither within Pip’s powers at the moment, so he did the next best thing.

“Come here, shithead.”

At least Merry had collapsed near a huge maple, or oak, or something with roots large enough to squeeze two bodies in and be hidden to all but the most curious of eyes. Pressing his back against the mossy wood, Pip drew Merry into him, cradling broken body between legs, ever mindful of collective injuries. The shared body heat when Pip wrapped arms around soon chased chills away.

Merry burrowed into his love’s embrace. “Pip? Where are we?”

He looked around at the towering trees, high branches so thick only a smattering of light managed to peek through. Beautiful, serene, in a Grimm sort of way. “Not a fucking clue.”

But, the border sign when they crossed over he had recognized - Pennsylvania. Though never invited to visit, he figured that Bucks County had to lay to the south somewhere, and, yes,  the relationship between parents and child existed in an extreme state of estrangement, but no matter how tangled the familial history web, no one would turn away their child in such dire need, right? That should be their goal then, to make it out of this forest to a phone or a police station, and call Brandy Hall, then just wait for the family to send help. Next on his agenda - take Merry home. But, not just yet.

“Where?”

“Safe, Merry.” Right now, catch breath, gather wits, reconnoiter bearings, maybe just  rest the eyes for a moment or thousand. They were alive and together, right now was content. “We’re safe.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“Somebody get that for me?”

With the vet’s arm stuck deep within, all limbs were too busy holding down the breech birth mare to bother with an ill-timed interruption.

“Uh…sure.” A standing around just in a case stable hand stepped forward to answer request and call, the techno ‘Fur Elise’ cut short.

“She’s progressing, right?” So long, too long since she went down, burnished mahogany foam flecked and quivering, eyes wild with fear. Her first foaling, a secret favorite out of Shadowfax two years ago, Eowyn just as frightened this would be her last. “Tell me she’s progressing.”

The vet’s over the glasses glance prudently noncommittal. “Time will tell.”

“What does that -” The mare bucked as another labor pain shook her exhausted body, “- crap!” tumbling Eowyn away into the straw, tailbone and pride smarting.

“It’s your brother,” phone rescuer and poorly masked smirk handed back the Android, “Says it’s urgent.”

Brushing straw and dust from her sore ass, Eowyn stood to accept the phone. “I’ll be right back, shout if you need me.”

The vet just nodded, not turning from his work.

“Hello?”

Out into the late morning haze to lean against the barn’s whitewashed wall. Only 11 o’clock and the day already exhausting. Eomer gone one day and already her life overwhelmed.

“What’s wrong?”

Her brother’s news not encouraging.

“How many?”

The number an estimate.

“And us?”

A relief when Eomer said none.

“Who? Who did you say?”

Two men lost, injured, running.

“Sure, I’ll keep an eye out for them. Merry and Pippin, you said?”

Confirmation on the names.

“What were they doing up there?”

She found it hard to believe it appeared to be nothing.

“You OK?”

Her load lifted a little at his affirmative reply.

“Uncle’s the same.”

Tone made it clear he wanted to move on the other subjects.

“Who’s coming?”

Description meant nothing.

“They’ll be coming here?”

And speculations meant little.

“Take care, Mer.”

Promises he would.

“Love you, too.”

A sad goodbye.

“No trouble, I hope.”

An involuntary gasp startled out by the intrusion. Alone, she had thought, but sometime during the conversation with her brother, Grima had managed to slither up without notice and he stood just inside the shadow of the roof’s overhang, protected by its shade.

“What?”

“The call from your brother. No trouble, I hope.” His voice soft, like the underbelly of a maggot.

“No, no, no trouble,” phone replaced into belt clip, answer skimming  the truth, eye contact avoided. “Just a routine check in, that’s all.”

He smiled, thin lips pulled upwards. “Glad to hear it. That is one thing this family does not need any more of.”

Says the family’s major trouble instigator. “Is there something you wanted, Grima?”

“Worried about the new foal coming. Heard it was a breech. Very difficult, I’m told.”

Eowyn frowned. Outside of ledger entries, never before had Grima shown any interest or concern for the horses of Rohan. Usually plague avoided even coming shouting distance near the barn and here he was invading her sacred space. This new attention…disturbing. “Doc’s still with her. Could be another couple of hours maybe.”

“Oh. Hours, you think.” He slithered closer. “Is that normal?”

“Depends. Some are easier than others, age and size are all factors that -” was she really standing here having a foal birthing conversation with her uncle’s tormentor? “I’ve got to get back.”

“I hear we will be having visitors,” words rushed out, hand snaked out, goal to keep Eowyn in sight the same, “though, in these uncertain times, we are hardly in a position to play host to complete strangers.”

And here the real reason he was slumming – the slimy sneak hoping to snag ammunition against Eomer. Well, not from her he wouldn’t. “Nope, no visitors, guess you overheard wrong.” She turned to enter the barn.

“You will let me know when the creature is born, won’t you, Eowyn?”

That sleeze on her name made a scalding hot shower a must do now. “Yeah, you’ll be the first to know.” Escape made good on this time.

“Not the first regrettably,” a tiny shiver, a gasp of pleasure, Grima sniffing Eowyn’s vacated air, “But, I will definitely be your last.”

 

 

 

*****

 

 

_Apologize 4 bad news. Pkg delayed. Escorts detained, msgers misplaced. New info from NY arriving soon. Will update when able. Pymt still due upon delivery_

Saruman immediately deleted the text.

 

 

******

 

 

“Seems a shame to wake them.”

“I believe this is the first time I have seen either of them quiet. Quite refreshing, actually.”

“Need medical attention. Maybe beyond my capabilities.”

“I have the utmost confidence in your skills as a healer, old friend.”

“Haven’t worked on people in a long time.”

“These two are no different than your usual charges. Well, maybe a little more vocal.”

“It’s coming, isn’t it? After all this time, the end is coming.”

“That is my fervent hope.”

“And these two. They are involved?”

“They will have a vital role to play in this game, friend, before the end.”

“And you? Where are you bound?”

“An unexpected rendezvous.”

“You do love to speak in riddles.”

“Makes me seem more mysterious. Take good care of them, see them healed and rested. They will need all their strength for what lies ahead.”

“Goodbye, old friend. Don’t worry about those two. They will grow strong again.”

“Of that I have no doubts. Farewell, friend.”

“By the way, liking the white suit.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Then I would slowly allow the shirt to slip from my shoulders, running my hand down my chest, across my nipples. Play with those, too. Other hand rubbing my crotch showing you how hard you make me. And you, Sam? What would you be doing? Sam? Sam, it’s your turn.”

“What? Oh, yeah. I’d take my shirt off, then my jeans. Well, first I’d have to take off my socks and shoes, or at least my shoes, but just standing there in my socks and nothing else, I’d look pretty silly. So, I guess the socks would have to come off, too. That is if I took my jeans off all the way, but if I didn’t -”

“Sam, you’re supposed to be seducing me not boring me to death.”

“Sorry, Frodo, I just don’t - much prefer to show you then talk about it.”

“This is the best we can do for right now.”

“We could just go to sleep, ya’ know.”

Frodo’s sexy voice. “I want you, Sam. _Need_ you. Take me now.”

“You’re killing me here!”

“But, where are we? We are...we are...mountains, cabin, stuck there, maybe for days and days, ‘cause of the blizzard.”

“Blizzard? _Really_?”

“World building here, Sam.”

“Sorry.”

“The cabin’s small, doesn’t matter though, it has everything we need. Like a kitchen and a fireplace and a bed.”

A squirm around a spine poking spring. “More comfortable than this one, I hope.”

“A big four poster, so high up off the floor you need a step stool to fall into the soft mattress that seems to swallow us whole. Cotton sheets, crisp and taut, stretched to the corners, clean smelling and -”

“Frodo, I just want to go to -”

“And all we have is time. Just you, me…the rope.”

OK. Maybe this game wasn’t so bad. “Go back to the bed, Frodo.”

“We’ve got tons of pillows for propping and throwing, for heads and hips, for cuddling and dreaming,” a smile in there, a smile of the ‘Gotcha’ variety, “and a goose down duvet floats on top, a sigh brushing against naked skin.”

Not bad at all. “Your naked skin. You stand, looking at me, hair damp from the shower, all pink and fresh. The light from the flames sets you to glowing, catching the sparkles in your blue eyes. You stand there, and you look at me, smiling.”

“Smiling because I’m looking at _you_ lounging across the bed, brown skin stark contrast to the innocence of the sheets. On your side, head resting in one cupped hand, the other just sitting on your thigh, your well-muscled thigh. You’re smiling, too, Sam. I look at your smile, your mouth wet and inviting, your eyes gone a golden color, like honey, the firelight casting thin, spidery shadows through your chest hair, god, how I fucking love your chest!”

“Thank you, Frodo.”

“You’re welcome, Sam. You look at me and in your eyes all I see is sex.”

Wait, what? “Is that all you see in there?”

“Desire, need, _lust_.”

“And?”

An exasperated sigh. “Right at this moment, I’d say mood killer.”

“What about love, Frodo? ‘Cause I know if I’m looking at your naked, wanting body kissed by the firelight moments before we crawl into a big four poster bed in a place where we won’t be disturbed for days ‘cause of a blizzard, then there’s got to be love in there somewhere.”

“Of course, Sam, of course there is love. There’s always love in your eyes regardless of the lighting, my state of dress or the weather.”

“Good. Just checking.” A turn over to back, satisfied all was right in fantasy land.

“Where were we?”

“Desire, need, _lust._ ”

“Right.” Wanton whispers in the dark. “I reflect that desire back to you, showing that my body is yours for the taking. I am practically screaming with the ache for your touch, your tongue skimming down my throat, your lips sucking my hardened nipples, your mouth bringing me to explode hot and wet and long and loud.”

“Just by me laying on the bed looking at you?”

“You don’t need to be lying anywhere, Sam. Just look at me and my knees go weak.”

Important safety tip. “Got to remember that.”

“Your turn.”

Not the customary location for this sort of activity – bedroom at Bag End, alone and dreaming – but… “I like looking at you, your body, your naked splendor, all thin hips, pale skin, long legs and eyes.”

“Make me sound like a freak, Sam.”

“Nope, perfection. Twenty-four/seven. In a tux, in boxers, in cut off sweatpants and that nasty old t-shirt with the faded Ninja Turtle -”

“Hey, I like that shirt!”

“- you’re perfection even then.”

“And what would this perfection do, standing there in the firelight?”

A mumbled suggestion.

“What did you say?”

A suggestive mumble. “You’d touch yourself.”

“Soft or hard?”

“Soft, just brushing your fingers up and down, just enough to make your dick twitch – oh, and you bite your lip.”

“I’m doing it now, Sam, just like you want.”

“No, you’re not!” The huddled shape right next moaned.“Are you?”

“What, and break rule number two?”

“And we’re not with ten through fifteen talking like this?”

“Want to know what you’re doing, Sam, right there on that four poster?”

The same as here. “Dying of frustration?”

“No, you’re stroking yourself, too, dick slipping through your palm, filling your hand, up and down, and I’m watching you, knowing that soon you’ll be in me, filling me.”

In defiance of room’s chill, sweat trickled down, clenched fists clammy, body one big tensed up, holding back, ball of sexual frustration. “I tell you to look at me, Frodo, watch me watching you. Your muscles, your hands, your eyes are so - God, you are so beautiful! Wish I could see this every time.”

“You do, Sam,” an unnecessary reminder, “you’re there.”

“I know, but that’s up close, my face right next to yours.”

“Or a little lower.”

“Now this way, I can watch all of you, face and mouth, your hips and abs, even the way your toes are curling into the thick rug in front of the fireplace.”

“There’s a rug?”

“Hey, if you can have a huge four poster bed and fluffy pillows, I can have a rug.”

“We’ll talk about what’s hanging on the walls later.”

“You’ve got your toes curled into the huge white shag rug as you pump, the most fantastic thing I will ever see, the only thing I want to.”

“Well, you’ve got a phone, or you did.”

“What? Record you - you jacking off?”

“Why not? That way you could watch me any time you wanted.”

Tempting, tempting, very tempting, but - “Much prefer the live performance.”

“I’ll have to check my tour schedule,” a Frodo giggle, “See if I can fit you in.”

“With the help of a little lube you can.”

“You’ve got a dirty mind, Sam. I like that.”

“Always aim to please.”

“And you always do.”

“So, rug, you standing there spanking it.”

“So, bed, you lying there spanking it.”

“Too many there’s and not enough over here’s.”

The cot squeaked. “Really, Sam?”

A wet, phlegmy cough from the other side of the room, a time and place reality check.

Shit. “But, this here’s not happening.”

“Fine.” Not happy at all. “You bed, me rug. What’s next?”

Since making all their words come to life would be the inevitable end should they continue, either that or just lie here and spontaneously combust, Game over for this contestant. “Go to sleep, Frodo.”

“OK, I walk toward you,” huddled shape’s selective hearing still playing through apparently, “my mouth watering, to taste, to take.”

“Frodo…”

“Bed perfect height for me to stand and reach you, running palms up your thighs, massaging, sweeping down, and you’re watching me, eyes burning.”

“And I want that, too, believe me, we just -” shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t offered a compromise, a reach across the great divide “-for right now, give me your hand.”

“I start to kiss your hot skin, tongue licking into the crease in your leg, the hairs tickling my nose. I can see -”

“Hey, Frodo, gimme your hand.”

“Right there, filling my sight, big and wet and hard, and I can’t wait to have you in -”

“What, am I speaking Hebrew here, give me your -” Said he wasn’t, but even if one was busy wanking, the other should be free to – not good. “Where’s your hand, Frodo?”

“I kiss the tip - you taste so fucking good! And you moan, pushing up into my touch, your fingers lock into my hair demanding, showing me just what you want from -”

“Your hand, where is it?”

“My mouth opens, I’m right over you now. I bend down taking your -”

“Damnit, Frodo, your hand, if you’re -”

“- dick into my -”

“STOP!” A thin blanket and Sam wrestling match. “No more!”

“What - what’s wrong?”

On the cot beside him, the small figure struggled to right clothes with one hand, the other busy clutching something about his neck.

That, right there was wrong. “Got to go to the bathroom.”

“Sam!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Their next door neighbor’s groused hello.

“SAM!”

Staggering through the hundreds of other cots crammed into the long room, Sam made his way back to the dimly lit dingy hallway. Tiny bathroom, dimmer and impossibly dingier, also thankfully empty, and he rushed in, slammed the door, collapsing on the crusty floor, the battle against tears forfeited.

_Now? He wants that **now**?_

Tonight, here of all places, the dirty talk, the fantasy – fucking fantastic as it was – he couldn’t do it. None since that crappy motel on Staten Island, and then only with Frodo fragile handle with care, but that make believe bullshit was torturous, especially when body’s recall was perfect, and soul’s desire lay an arm’s and rules reach away. Of course, if they had tried to make love in the places they had been sleeping, tonight would have been a jail cell, dumping a whole other ton of trouble bricks on top of Sam’s already ginormous and unprepared for load.

_And tomorrow? The next day? What’re we going to do on the one after that?_

Money, an issue never discussed. But, that was when the Fellowship still existed and this whole adventure a two-week trip tops. Now he and Frodo were alone and had to make it on what money they had had in their pockets. Hotel rooms, the first to go. No need to spend precious funds on that luxury when bus stations stayed open 24 hours. Two tickets to Trenton, that’s all they could afford and still have some cash left for food. That first night horrible, Frodo sleeping fitfully on the hard bench, Sam hadn’t closed his eyes once fearing pickpockets, or muggers or worse.

_And Saint Catherine’s Garden of Peace promised The Ritz by comparison._

Frodo’s suggestion, the homeless shelter, free food, and a warm, dry place to sleep for a change. Sam had agreed reluctantly, Catholic churches previously avoided for various and obvious reasons, but St. Catherine’s the right decision given their dire circumstances, the bleeding Jesus judging down from cracked plaster while they ate chili, notwithstanding. The dining room crowded, elbow bumping room only, the wheezes and hacks and sleeves slicked with snot complimented the unwashed desperation funk ambiance. Frodo had found an Emerson vs. Thoreau conversation with a Forty-Niner doppelganger named Barney on his right, and Sam, declining the driving nails worthy cornbread, had passed the uncomfortable meal counting blessings shamefully forgotten.

_We had, we have, good lives, and will again after all this shit is over. But these guys? What happened?_

The death of a loved one? An old black man, snowy white hair and beard, crumpled in his chair, photograph snuggled to his heart.The loss of a job? The man in a dingy pin-striped suit reading the Wall Street Journal, finance section, his glasses taped in three places. Alcohol? The man passed out across the table, his uneaten food snagged by his neighbor. Drugs? The bug-eyed man in the corner, the one locked in a heated argument with his head voices, the one who had stared intently at Sam. No, not Sam, Frodo. A non-stop, disconcertingly, moving into creepy territory staring. And Sam had known why. He didn’t belong here, in soup kitchens, living on the streets, Frodo far above anyone else in the room, Sam included. Yet, the rumpled, filthy clothes, the grease matted hair, the dirt under bitten to the nub nails, that hollowness of a horror not willing to confess, Frodo indistinguishable from the rest of society’s undesirables. His extraordinary Frodo on the bottom.

_Elrond, you bastard!_

And the same for all the other Powers That Be, including Gandalf, who started this whole thing, The Power That Wasn’t Anymore, none of them with the balls to carry The Ring, but more than happy for Frodo to be one crushed under Sauron’s heel.

_No, that’s not fair._

Gandalf would be appalled at Frodo’s fall, Aragorn ready to take down everyone in Frodo’s defense, Galadriel even, the list of those in Frodo’s corner long. Felt damn good, though, shifting blame to the absent, and also pretty shitty when free will and protect life duty had motivated their choice to volunteer. They had no one but themselves to thank and curse for current, and future, circumstances.

_So, quit bitching, Samwise, and work with you’ve got._

The Ring must be destroyed, and the only location to do that - Mordor. So, in order to do the one, Frodo had to carry the Ring to the other.

_Assuming we find the fucking place._

Scrambling to stay half a step ahead of ultimate evil keeps one terribly busy, so neither had bothered to ask, “By the by, where’s Mordor exactly?” There was no need to know when the detail people were leading the way, right? Then Boromir had attacked, Frodo fled, Sam chased after, and now all they remembered of the original sales pitch was that Mordor was south of New York somewhere. A whole lot of real estate there, nine states, ten if Florida’s tacked on. So, not only was the Quest flat broke, it was utterly, hopelessly lost as well. Frodo’s idea to just head down, trusting The Ring would somehow show them the path home had sounded ridiculous to Sam, more a time and on empty resources waster than a viable plan. Yet, when even Google had failed to locate The Dark Lord’s Lair (sympathetic to their plight and giggly over Frodo’s flirt public Liberian had gained them brief internet access for the search), their only option, a left turn at Trenton.

_And to stay under Ringwraith radar while we travel, that means more shelters, more shitty food, and too many more goddamn sermons._

Mandatory, the price of a free meal, this evening’s lesson on the Seven Deadly Sins, the condemnation of Lust aimed right at the back corner by the broom closet, and the two men sitting as close as guarding over all nun would allow. And Sam hadn’t needed that shit. He knew evil – been there, done that, had his t-shirt singed by the Balrog – and it wasn’t what he and Frodo shared, with or without benefit of clothes. Hatred of those different masked as compassion was still hatred, and, while not chapter and verse fluent on all those “new” additions to the Torah, he was pretty confident the Big One about how to treat neighbors commanded only love.

_So, put that in your censer and smoke it, Father._

Evil had been present, however, in that dining hall, that’s for goddamn sure, hanging around Frodo’s neck, and The Ring appreciated the priest’s message even less than Sam, the Ringbearer enduring all of displeasure’s brunt. Leg bouncing, teeth grinding, drenched in sweat and mumbling a conversation only he could hear, Frodo had fought back like the stubborn trooper he was, but, at the offer of communion, he had been forced to retreat, audibly retching as he ran from the room. Worried, Sam had, of course, quickly followed, and hit panic mode when all the obvious retreat to places empty – not in the john or the meditation room, or the kitchen, lobby, dormitory, or - a stampede of crazy thoughts – _attacked, abducted, unconscious, injured, oh, fuck, he’s taken off again! -_ the whole place in an uproar as he ran room to room a’ la Rivendell, shouting Frodo’s name, bringing the devotional to a premature end, cementing staff’s mistrust of them both. Sam finally found Frodo outside, up on street level, smoking under a street light, chagrined, looking like he had run three marathons back to back, but otherwise fine. Yes, it had been The Ring, and no, he didn’t want to talk about it. All he had wanted was to be held, which Sam obliged, enfolding arms chasing away demons that he could neither understand nor truly defeat.

_Every day a little more, every day a little less, every day Frodo slipping away from me._

Most days only a glimmer, like a shape dancing on a drawn shade. Others, It sat whispering on his shoulder, a cartoon devil sending Frodo from sullen to ecstatic to weepy, the catalyst nothing more than a dog walker without a plastic poop bag or a broken umbrella discarded in a trash bin. And distracted like that, mind busy someplace else – the delight of autumn leaves falling, the lonely of a dropped mitten, just how fucking hilarious someone tripping out of a door was – It would call, Frodo’s hand answering with a lover’s caress. One kiss, deep and passionate, right on Frodo’s mouth, or an ass squeeze memento of what was and will be again - just not fucking soon enough - Sam’s intervention chasing It back to the shadows. And Sam reveled in that power over The Ring, that his love still triumphed.

_And if that doesn’t work…when that doesn’t – don’t want to think about._

Sexual advances aside, Sam understood Frodo knew no true respite, no relief or reprieve from The Ring, the insidiousness of It’s promises and threats, cajoles and damnations constant, Frodo’s spirit eroding, his will battered against the rocks unceasing. Yet, Frodo was still Frodo, still perfection, only now in a passive-aggressive, wild mood swingy kind of way. Frodo resisted The Ring’s temptation - _See? Extra extraordinary –_ and that inner strength where others had failed lathered pride in his love all over Sam’s already full of Frodo heart. So thick, just maybe at the end of all this, there could be a victory waiting.

_If I survive tonight, that is._

The two cots in the far corner away from resident clergy warden, and the guy who insisted on sleeping naked, were as isolated from the others as possible. At lights out, the inevitable lecture about appropriate in the house of God behavior, with a pummeled deceased equine over emphasis on unnatural acts interpreted for the hopelessly clueless by Frodo’s rude and awkwardly realistic hand gestures. Sam had laughed, the monsignor frowned, and he was put on the naughty list. Again. Lined up WWII army hospital style, the cots were short, narrow, noisy and very uncomfortable. Covered in only a thin mattress and an even thinner blanket, exactly 24” apart, Frodo and Sam had settled in, the first chance for real sleep in days.

_And then he began to whisper…_

His hard-on raged still, pushing out, binding his boxers, entertaining scandalous thoughts about right here, right - but, no, the Pieta print above the toilet not the right audience for a hand job.

“Shit.”

Was this the foreseeable future? An endless parade of shelters, crappy food and homophobic diatribes? Never to be alone, just the two of them, hold Frodo while they slept, hearts beating in time, have his lithe body pulsing underneath, the taste of his mouth, the timbre of his voice as he moaned, the sensation of thrusting deep, Frodo squeezing tight around his dick, clutching tight around The Ri –

_OK, that I can do without._

“You done in there?” The muffled voice through the stained wooden door not really interested in an honest answer.

“Just a minute!”

Groaning up from the floor, reminiscences causing a worse problem than Frodo’s four poster fantasy, he splashed cold water on his face, shuffling through mental images – _Dad, Uncle Andy, Papa Hobson, Bubbe Daisy, Papa Hobson AND Bubbe -_

The gut stab worked a boner deflation miracle.

_Frodo. Something’s wrong._

“Sorry,” Sam quick to exit, “Must have been the stew.”

The pin-stripe suit guy just shrugged, slipping by without eye contact. “You get used to it.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

In the crowded room an odd chorus of snores, a tear inducing stench, but nothing amiss amidst the lines of cots, even in their corner. _But, I can feel, sharper now, Frodo is –_ lying down in his, no, sitting on the edge, no, he was standing up and bending over – _Christ, can’t breathe, like being stran –_ standing, bending over, reaching for -

“Hey! Stop! Get your fucking hands off him!” Launched across the room, an obstacle course, around cots, climbing cots, blankets and boots and backpacks, a painful wake-up call for the unlucky to be in his way.

“Hey!”

“What the fuck?”

“Watch it, dumbass!”

“Get off him!”

At Sam’s mad rush, attacker doubled down, leaning in, Frodo all kicking and scratching and fighting.

“Get off, you fucker!”

Close enough now - that creepy crack head starer from supper.

“Get off!”

The last few feet of screaming covered in a flying leap.

“FRODO!”

Tackling, built up momentum crashed to the floor with Sam on top of the pile. “Piece of shit, who are you?”

“Sam, don’t!”

Now, here was real entertainment, the shelter audience awake and primed, cheering, circling, chanting for a fight as Sam drove fist into bug-eyed face. “Who are you?”

“Sam!”

And again. “ ** _WHO!?!_** ”

Lights flicked on, shouts now from their ecumenical hosts, and under Sam’s fury, Frodo’s attacker, a bleeding, puling, pleading…thing.

“Mmmmmy, tttttttreasure!”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

 

 

Something snapped when head hit brick wall.

“I should kill you, you little shit!”

Frodo stepped between. “Sam! Stop it, stop it! It’s over!”

“Dickhead tried to strangle you! Almost got me arrested.”

“Nnnot mmmy ffffault.”

“It’s _all_ your fault, pissant!” Sam rushed forward again. Frodo held him back. Again.

“Sam, calm down now!” And pushed clear back to the other wall, leaving the crack head in the shadows of the alleyway to grovel in peace. “You still could go to jail, ya’ know,” Frodo shouted in his lover’s face, “You touch him and more than getting kicked out of the shelter will happen.”

“But, he tried to kill you!”

“No, he was after the Ring.”

“Thththat’ssss right. Mmmmy ttttttreasure.”

Sam’s mouth flapped open and shut several times. “The Ring? How does he know about the Ring?”

_Because it’s obvious. Because it was inevitable._ “Because this is the guy Bilbo got it from.”

“He ststststole it from usssss! Stststststole it!”

The dumped Gatorade like surprise had Sam sputtering. “This is - is Gollum? This - _this_ is him?”

The creature, a man label really didn’t fit proper, hunkered down by the overflowing dumpster. His nose, where Sam’s punch had landed multiple times, was swollen, red and running, and, as luck would have it, the most attractive thing about it. Skin, pallid enough that the veins blue bled through, stuck to scabbed skull in blotches. Yellow, crooked teeth squatted in a lipless mouth that drooled and quivered, and strings of hair hung in mats about lumpy ears. Merry’s description, after that one brief glimpse, like that guy from “Deep Impact” to which Frodo had taken offense, until Pippin corrected the mistake. The movie was “Armageddon” but, this thing on the garbage strewn cobblestones even made Steve Buscemi look closer to Chris Evans.

“How did he know you were here? In Trenton? He was in New York, for fuck’s sake!”

“He follows the Ring, Gandalf said. Must have tracked us from there.”

“Mmmmy tttttreasure, wants it bbbbback.”

“He – _that’s_ – been stalking us the whole way?” A heebie jeebie shiver shook Sam to his shoes. “And now? Now that we know? From here will he…?”

Hands trembled, fingers twitched, Gollum begging to touch gold. _Just like Rivendell, just like breakfast, just like Uncle -_ “Don’t think he’ll ever stop. Don’t think he can.”

“Well, I’ll make him stop.” Fists ready to keep that promise blocked by Frodo.

“How, by beating him to a bloody pulp?”

“Yes, finishing what I started inside.”

“Why, to make you feel better?”

“Don’t believe this! He tried to kill you, Frodo!”

“Yes, just like Boromir, and Saruman, and the Nazgul, because of THIS!” Frodo pulled the chain free, a glint of cruel in the alleyway gloom. “The Ring. The Ring that corrupts, The Ring that devours, The Ring that took him and perverted him into the pitiable thing he is now.”

“Mmmmmy tttttreasure!”

“And I’m supposed to feel sorry for that?” Laughter’s incredulity the perfect distant police siren wail accompaniment. “Whoever, _what_ ever he is, it’s of his own making.”

“Not when The Ring steals away all your choices.”

Sam turned away from Frodo’s ‘I know of where I speak’ expression.

“He knknknknows, thththat one ddddoes. He knknknknows.”

“Shut up, fucker.” Protect and defend, shield against the shadows not that easily convinced to forget. “All I’m saying is just a little convincing to cease and desist the creeper schtick. With all the other bullshit facing us, one less homicidal maniac on our ass can’t be a bad -”

“No.” _See, Gandalf, I listened, I learned._ “Bilbo didn’t, I won’t, and neither will you.”

“When I remember, hands around your -” and forgiveness definitely a step too far, “Frodo, you’re the Ringbearer, and I’ll accept your decision, but if it’s not handled here, _now,_ and that thing continues to follow us to -”

“Ffffollow the ttttreasure!”

“Thought I told you to SHUT UP!” The kick brutal and on kidney point.

“Goddamnit, Sam!”

“Fine, Frodo, fine. Won’t take my advice, the person who’s only thinking about your safety, that’s fine.” Backpack snatched up with a little passive-aggressive flourish. “But, can we at least toss him in the dumpster, or down a hole and -”

“SAM!”

The sudden weight sent him pitching forward, and he went down hard, jarring arms thrown out to cushion the fall. “Shit! Get off! Get _off_!” Gollum scratched for eyes, throat, anywhere jagged nails could reach, the attack staggering, sloshing puddles, pinballing down the alley. “Get - OW! Fuck! He bit me!”

“You kkkkkick mmmme, I bbbbbite you!”

“The little shit bit my ear!”

“Stop! Gollum, stop!”

Against the brick wall – “GET -” once – “OFF -” twice – “ME!” – three, pounding back into the building, Sam grunting, Gollum groaning, but still attached.

“I wwwwwant mmmmy ttttrreasure!”

_Do something, do anything –_ “Sam!” – _can’t just stand and – what would Bilbo - what would Gandalf – what would Aragorn – fuck, yeah!_

Going for the up and over maneuver, Sam’s clamped hands onto stick arms, leaned down, and pitched forward. “Goddamn bastard, GET -”

The struggling ceased.

“Perhaps you don’t remember this, Gollum, so let me reacquaint you with Sting.” A flash of light sang off the blade as Frodo pushed in close to jugular. “You’re going to let him go now, aren’t you? That’s right, release him.”

Burden gone, Sam stumbled over to the far wall, coughing, gagging. “Fuck! That thing -” blood on his hand from the wound on his ear, “He bit me!”

Frodo backed Gollum into a corner never wavering his sword arm. “If you ever touch him again, you won’t have to worry about anybody else, I’ll kill you myself. Understand?”

Gollum nodded weakly.

“You know the way to Mordor? You’ve been there?”

Gollum nodded again.

“You can show us the way?”

“Frodo, are you nuts?”

“Quiet, Sam.” Sting leaned in a little more. “You can show us the way?”

“Yes.” A phlegmy whisper.

“Frodo, you can’t be - ”

“Can’t get there by ourselves, and if he’s going to be following us anyway.”

“You can’t trust it. Don’t trust it!”

A request, a command, a leap of faith. “You will show us the way to Mordor.” _My choice…by any means necessary._

Gollum nodded one more time. “Yyyyesssss.”

Sting released throat’s hold.

“Big mistake, Frodo, fucking huge mistake. I’m telling you now, you’ll regret it in the end.”

Sting slipped back into Frodo’s pack. “Maybe I will, Sam, but by that time The Ring will be gone and I probably won’t give a shit one way or the other. How’s your ear?”

“He fucking bit me, how do you think it feels?” He swiped his hand across the wound. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Then use some of those medical supplies you insisted on buying and quit your bitching.” A solid kiss on the mouth to blunt words edge.

A solid Sam kiss right back. “I bought those for you, Frodo. You’re the accident prone one.”

Hugging his lover hard, Frodo smiled. “I shall endeavor to live up to my reputation.”

“You do and I’ll kill you myself.” This time the kiss even deeper.

From the dark, Gollum watched it all.

After, Sam gave Frodo a for good measure ass squeeze, then gathered the packs. “Pretty handy with that blade there.”

“I have many hidden talents, Sam,” Frodo extended an offer for help up off the ground. “It’s your job to find them all.”

Outstretched hand received a blank stare.

“Oh, the things I do for my boss!”

“Hurry up, Gollum,” Frodo offered his hand again, “Let’s go.”

This time hand reached for hand. “Ttttto Mmmmordor?”

“To Mordor.”

“Your ttttaking the tttttreasure ttto Mmmordor?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Can we get moving, please,” Sam at the mouth of the alleyway, over ready to leave, “Don’t want that lunatic nun to come after me with the ruler again.”

Awe and trepidation walked by Frodo slowly. “Wwwe wwwill shshshow you the wwway to Mmmmorder.” At Sam, disgust and loathing stopped. “He’s ggggoing, ttttoo?”

“Sam is always by my side.”

“ _Always."_   Emphasis Sam’s.

Gollum spat, watery brown. “Ggggoing tttto be a fffun ttttrip.” He turned away and left down the sidewalk.

“We’re finally going to Mordor, Sam.”

“Whee.” And he watched Gollum’s hunched shoulders disappear into the early morning dimness. “I’m never going to sleep again.”

 

 

******

 

 

“I told you not to trust him! The little fucker, he’s skipped out on us!”

Frodo’s lame excuse blared over by an arriving truck’s horn.

Following Gollum on a serpentine route that included a duck through a condemned building and a sneak under a cut chain link fence, Frodo and Sam had arrived close to dawn and dog tired. And The Dagorland Truck Plaza and Gift Emporium was a happening place, the sounds of American commerce nearly deafening. An expansive parking lot boasted of the largest assortment of out of state license plates the pair had ever seen in one place. Detroit, and Tokoyo, would be proud; just about every make and model was represented, some in multiples, cars parked in pockmarked spaces, cars stacked on the backs of carriers bound west. Mini Coopers sat alongside Escalades, piggybacking mini vans and Hyundais. And most of those vehicles came with at least one person, the river of people flowing strong inside the garishly lit building hawking for attention on the other side of the asphalt expanse.

On one side, a convenience style store where a weary traveler could pick up a 64 oz coke, some pizza flavored Combos and a pine tree shaped air freshener then be on their way within a matter of minutes. You needed a shower? Dagorland provided those, too, cleaned hourly to insure the comfort and health of their patrons. DVDs and motor oil, band aids and playing cards. You could even pick out a genuine imitation diamond ring and a card on your way home in case there was a special anniversary left forgotten.

The other held a restaurant. A row of booths lined the big windows so you could enjoy the view of all those chicken and cattle trucks gassing up while you ate. Tables that sat as few as one to long, rambling things that would accommodate a baseball team, and their managers, as they passed through to the next game. Swivel seats, the kind that only turn one way with a back that cuts right under the shoulder blades crowded around the counter for those who came in only for a cup of joe and a little chit-chat. You could get breakfast 24 hours a day: pancakes, eggs, sausage and bacon. But for the really hungry, they offered “The 18 Wheeler”, a 24 oz ribeye and half BBQ chicken and potatoes and rice and bread and dessert. The salad, $1.29 extra. The menu, printed in the cheery colors of bright blue, green and red, gave you fun facts about the state of New Jersey to read while you waited as your meal was prepared by someone with homemade tattoos on each finger. State motto: Liberty and prosperity. To Go orders always taken should you not have the time to sit awhile, thank you for dropping in, don’t forget to tip your server!

Sam and Frodo schlumped on a bench outside.

“Want one?”

Sam offered a cracker from the stash he had found stuffed all the way at the bottom of his backpack when scrounging for loose change hoping to find enough for a Coke. No quarters, but ten packages of these little crackers, like those cheese and peanut butter jobs you can get at the corner news stand. Only these didn’t have peanut butter and they weren’t really crackers, either. More of a cross between pita bread and matzo, they had a delicate flavor, a creamy texture, and remarkably one or two would fill you up nicely. Those crackers from The Lothlorien Bakery the only positive during those terrible days at the Trenton bus station.

“No, thanks.”

He wasn’t hungry, even though St. Catherine’s chili had been hours ago. He wasn’t tired either, despite the last good sleeps dating back to the Institute. _Not even then, really._

“Shit.” It fell through the crack again, Sam twisting between bench and seat to reach his backpack. “If I’ve gotta do this one more time…”

He wasn’t uncomfortable, unlike Sam, his dangling feet off the too high, too hard bench no bother. Neither was he cold, the diesel exhaust like a warm, climate choking blanket.

“Christ, I could kill for something to drink.”

“There’s always the fountain inside.”

“Jersey water? Uh, no.”

He wasn’t bored or anxious, frightened or content. Not pleased, disheartened, satisfied, confused, despondent, amused or in the slightest suffering from a bad case of ennui.

“How long has it been?”

“Going on two, I’d say.”

“That little fucker.”

What Frodo was – angry, the animus radiating off in crackly waves.

“Wasted the night following the shit around, and what’ve got? Blisters, a backache and a chunk out of my ear.”

“Technically that happened before the following around, Sam.”

“My wound, my timeline.”

Irate at being ditched, furious at Sam’s unalieveable discomfiture, and seeing red, spitting nails, wet hen territory enraged that his own trust had authored this whole bloody mess.

_Idiot! I actually believed him! ‘I swears, sssssswears on the tttttreasure!’ Yeah, right, he’ll show us the way to Mordor, run us all over Trenton, then swans off leaving us sitting here looking like rubes. And Mordor is still out of reach. Oh, god, what do I do now?_

_“There is a solution, Frodo Baggins.”_

_No money, no fucking clue where to go even if we did._

_“The answer is very simple, really.”_

_Maybe head back to New York, to the Institute, to Rivendell, get help, a debit card._

_“I’m willing, Frodo, willing to aid you through your troubles.”_

_But, how would we even get there? Walk? Then what? Tell them that everything got screwed up, Boromir turned, the Fellowship busted and I’ve fucked up so royally I’m asking Gollum for directions?_

_“You need only me, Frodo. Take, claim, command and all your troubles will be -”_

“You ttttwo, let’ssss ggggo.” Gollum here one second, the other off across the parking lot.

“Finally!” Sam jumped off immediately, ready to go yesterday. “Going to have a word or twenty with that shit for leaving us – come on, Frodo.”

_See, I don’t need you._ Relief over not being a complete fuckup dragged faith placed in Gollum vindication into motion after Sam. _And I never will._

_“Perhaps, Frodo Baggins, perhaps.”_

The truck was sitting all the way at the far end of the lot, a king sleeper, cab painted in alternating stripes of purple and black, topped off with a row of bright orange chasing lights and a triple horn smack in the middle of the roof. The naked lady mud flaps completed the picture. They would be traveling in style.

“This is them?” A very deep voiced broken English. “Your friends?”

“Yesss,” a sneer for Sam, “one ffffriend, anyway.”

“Welcome!” A beefy hand shook Frodo to his boots. “My name Muil, Emyn Muil and I take you where you want.”

This was encouraging news. “You do?”

“Da, take you to Ocean City.”

And that was surprising news. “Ocean City…Maryland?”

“Da, family troubles there for you, like he said, I take you home.”

And that was the lie that hooked their ride. Scummy to trade on a Good Samaritan’s kindness with a blatant falsehood. _But, at this point, the alternative?_

_“I’m here for you, Frodo Baggins.”_

_No alternative._

“Yes, family troubles, and with your assistance we’ll make it back home for…” _What? Lunch? Columbus Day? The cows?_

“The operation?”

“There’s going to be an operation?”

“Da, for your little sister.”

_And the lie just keeps on growing._ “My little sister?”

“Sister Sylvia, you give her kidney.”

A hard shot at fibteller who was finding the asphalt utterly fascinating. _Now, I’m fake giving away body parts?_ “There’s nothing I won’t do for my little sister, Sylvia,” a sigh and discouraged headshake to seal the deal, “even with a fifty-fifty chance of success.”

Sam just raised an eyebrow.

“Good brother, good son.” The back clap sent Frodo stumbling. “Family most important thing in life, always.”

“I totally agree, Mr. Muil.” _Especially make believe ones._

“You call me Emyn. And your names, please?”

Experience knew any lie, if kept on a short lease, would have less with which to hang. In other words - _Keep it close, keep it simple._ “I’m Frank, that’s Stan, and you already know Smeagol.”

“Well, Frank and Stan and Smeagol, we must go now to make delivery on time.”

“Stan? I hate that name.” Sam’s whispered discontent climbed into the cab. “Wanted something strong, rugged.”

“Sy? Sid? Oh, I know, Shlomo.”

“God, definitely NOT my middle name.”

“Hurry now, please,” Emyn insisting on haste from inside, “late not good business.”

A step to the side. “You first, Smeagol.”

No movement, he stood stock still staring wonder at Frodo. “Wwwwhy…why that nnname?”

“It’s yours, that’s why.” Loud answer for benevolent truck driver, a quiet one for redeemed himself just in time guide. “Your name a long time ago, anyway.”

“Smeagol,” a smile, genuine and joyous, “haven’t heard that name for a long -”

“Just climb in the damn truck, Smeeeeeeeeeagol.”

Sam’s taunt slapped the smile away.

Front seat, the most comfortable went to Frodo, at their benefactor’s insistence, tossing Sam in the back with Gollum. Both stayed plastered in their respective corners.

“How long to Ocean City?”

“Three, four hours,” Emyn settling in for the drive, “if traffic not be a bear today.”

The purple truck merged quickly with the south bound traffic and soon sped down I95 toward Maryland as the sun began to make its daily appearance, the red clouds streaming a brilliant sailor’s warning. _Oh, my god, finally, FINALY, in the right direction. I did it, WE did it._

_“Yes, we did, Frodo Baggins.”_

_‘Course, only to Maryland, and because of a lie, and I’m trading on the veracity of a strung out, wrung out Ring tweaker who’s only here for the chance to spit on my cooling corpse in the gutter._

_“Baby steps, Frodo, baby steps.”_

_Three hours, maybe four. I can do that. Sit here, check out the scenery, be Frank, the saintly brother. Not think about what lies ahead, where this journey will travel, the end of my road. Just revel in this success, enjoy the company. Forget about just how the hell we're going to sneak into Mordor, find the Cracks of Doom, and destroy this goddamn Ring._

_“I’m still here, you know.”_

_Yes, I know._

_“Just checking.”_

_Soak up the peace and -_

“So, Frank, what are you?”

_Not so quiet._ “Beg pardon?”

Sucking on a strawberry kiwi Capri Sun, Emyn squeezed into the left lane, a Toyota Yaris prudently giving way to all eighteen wheels. “You, job, not job, what?”

“No, grad student at NYU,” _eh_ _, why the hell not,_  “film studies.”

“Like Spielberg, Jackson and Kurosawa, that kind of study?”

Bonds now released, the story soared fancy’s flight to the higher reaches. “Cinematography, really, that’s my passion.”

“And you, Stan, you student, too, like Frank?”

“Yeah, right,” a snigger from behind the driver’s seat, “more like dddddrive-thru wwwwindow.”

“And what do you do exactly, Smeeeeeeagol? Huh? Except have a standing reservation at the Tri-State’s finest soup kitchens.”

“Entrepppppreneur.”

That guffaw from behind Frodo. “Yeah, how’s that _jewelry_ business working out for you?”

“At lllleast I don’t _eat_ all mmmmy inventory.”

“No, you just try to steal other people’s stuff!”

“Hey!” A look between the seats, Frodo’s best dad frown. “Cut it out, you two.”

“He started it.”

“Ddddid not.”

“Did, too! I was just sitting here, doing nothing, when –” some sort of nasal sound back up in the head, like the largest ball of snot in the world was working up an appearance, “Christ! You are fucking disgusting!”

“Tttttakes one to knnnnow -”

_As if the voice in my head isn't bad enough_. “That’s it!” More than a mere scare the brats glance, fed- up Frodo turned all the way around, lancing both with authority’s stare. “Both, shut up. Not going to listen to you squabbling all the way to Ocean City.” _Or to Mordor. I hope._ “Not fair to Emyn here.”

“Yeah.”

“OKKKKKK.”

Sam at least had the decency to paint a little chagrin over his aimed at Gollum loathing daggers.

“Good.” Front facing again, Frodo just glad he didn’t have to go back there. “Sorry about that, Emyn, sometimes they just get -” the jaw cracking yawn a surprise guest.

“No problem.” A cavernous rumble of a chuckle. “Usually silent while driving, good to have company. But, you are tired, Frank, you should sleep now, need all energy for Sylvia.”

“Listen to him, Fro-ank.” Sam mothering from the back seat.

Exhausted merely skimmed the surface, and as much as he wanted to remain alert, awake and aware, the rhythm of the road, the warmth inside the cab, seat’s firm cradle all conspired toward slumber. “OK, but only for a moment or two, and you’ll wake me if -”

“Sure, sure, whatever you want.”

Head propped on window, Frodo slipped his hand down to the space by the door, and Sam was right there to hold, just like he knew he would. _Not a fourposter._ But, it wasn’t St. Catherine’s, or bus station, either, and with their quest finally moving positive, and the Sam connection tight, Frodo closed his eyes and allowed chasing sleepless nights to catch him.

_…green hills, rolling one after the other, and I’m watching a shadow of a cloud race across, dipping into the folds of the land. The stiff breeze smells of earth and bread and livestock and life, the grass cool and prickly between my toes. This place, this land, secure and solid, like that huge tree, on the hill, my roots are buried deep. A buzzing in my ear, quickly brushed away. The Party would begin soon, across the field below, a crowd gathering by another tree - excited voices, carried up by the early fall wind, beckoning to join the merriment. That buzzing again, but it won’t keep me from…_

_…accepting a mug of ale thrust into my hand and Bilbo hollering from across the tables, his cheeks a fine shade of rose, his smile broad around the pipe clenched in his teeth. Merry chases Pippin, coat tails flying, weaving between the elders who swat at them full of feigned anger. The ale cool and wet, soothing dry throat, face actually hurting from all the smiling, and belly full to bursting with Mrs. Cotton’s apple dumplings. If only the buzzing would stop. ‘A shout, 'Happy Birthday, Frodo!’ and I raise a mug in happy reply. A brilliant burst of light across the sky, setting roofs of the surrounding homes in stark outline, the Mill down by the Water,, its wheel softly churning, a protrait by Gandalf and his fireworks, a bevy of wee ones gigging for more. Life milling and churning and dancing around, this life – satisfying, content, peaceful. Just the buzzing bothers and annoys. No, not a buzz anymore. More like a whine, more like a voice, a voice almost recognizable, a voice niggling in the back of my mind. Can’t make out what it’s saying, what it wants. But, no time for that now, I need to find, I must find…_

_…over by the tree, Sam leaning, relaxed and talking with friends. His golden curls damp from dancing, his shirt open at the collar and peeking out below between weskit and breeches. Sam’s muscles - now at rest - earlier had stretched taut as he pushed the wheelbarrow through the garden. Oh, the heat, nothing to do with ale or dancing or running around, the desire, the need for Sam, must have Sam now. That voice is still calling, my name now, calling my name and talking of promises, great riches, power, and – not listening, not listening. There are more important things to do, more urgent. I need to go to Sam, want to be near him, by his side where I belong. Sam turns, scanning the crowd, as if he had heard me, and our eyes meet, our love shared. I’m heading across the Party Field to Sam, shouting at the voice, demanding it to stay silent, to leave me alone! I need to be with my Sam, but people are in my way, crowding in around - Merry and Pip, Gandalf and Bilbo. The voice won’t be ignored any longer - Aragorn, Gimli, Legolas, Elrond all stand in my way, naming me special, chosen, Ringbearer, demanding my attention, my time, body and soul. Can’t get to – Sam! Come help me, Sam! Only sadness in his eyes. A lass, all sassy with ribbons in her hair, places a hand in Sam’s and draws him away. No! Sam! No! The voice has a name now, the Ring, the Ring calling for me to come away, come away. I fight the crowd, fight to be free, fight the voice, The Ring, but I can’t make it stop, can’t break free, can’t get to Sam. Stop! Sam! Don’t go! Don’t leave me! The voice, the Ring, shrieking its victory, now it would have me alone, all for itself, the crowd of people pulling me the other way, Sam turns for one last look, then disappears into the night with Rosie. Falling into blackness, screaming –_

“Sam!”

“Geez, Frank, there’s no need to shout. I’m right here, and since when do you call me by my cousin’s name?”

Frodo squinted at the late morning sun, magnified by the truck’s windshield, the harsh gouging into his eyes. _OK, truck, Emyn, know where I am, and who I am. I’m Sylvia’s kidney donating brother._ “Sorry,” smacking lips tasting the sleep fuzzies, “Must have been dreaming.”

“Thththat’s obvious.” A snotty snort from Gollum’s corner.

A turn to the window wince inducing, neck awkward snooze angle board stiff. _Shit! That hurts!_ “Where are we?”

“Ocean City,” Emyn much too cheerful for this or any other AM. “You are home.”

A vain attempt to work out the neck kinks. “What time is it?”

“A little before noon.” Frodo’s distress immediately noticed, identified,  and help reached around the seat. “Here, Frank, let me.”

“Oh, Stan, that feels so…!”

“You slept the entire drive down. How’d you feel?”

“Better now.” Sam’s hands, no matter what they touched, could make everything right. That omelet Frodo had attempted and managed only to spread cheese, chives and mushrooms all over the kitchen? Sam’s hands had repaired to make a wonderful breakfast. That spigot Frodo had insisted he could replace in the bathroom, but instead sent a plume of cold water straight to the ceiling? Sam tweaked until the geyser stopped and spigot was tightened down. Sam’s hands, strong and sure. Frodo could always rely on Sam’s hands.

_…Sam’s hand around…_

“No!” The jerk away not quite far enough away.

_…Rosie’s, walking away…_

“Something wrong there, Frank?” Sam peered around the front seat, concern brow knitted tight.

“It’s nothing, Stan.” _Except you leaving me behind._ “Just ticklish, I guess.”

That look, the 'OK, but, you’re gonna tell me later' one, and Sam sank back from view.

Sighing, Frodo drew his feet up on the big seat and rested chin upon knee. It had been a dream, only a dream, that’s all. _Then why did it seem so real?_ Just as with the others, his dreams felt not like the random images thrown on the subconscious’ movie screen, but more like long misplaced memories that sounded and smelled as true as the sock slipped down into his boot. They couldn’t be memories, though, he had never drunk ale from a wooden cup, sailed over grey waters, and he most certainly had never been to that other nightmarish place. And in each one, he and Sam parted. Frodo shook his head at the absurdity of that scenario. _Such bullshit! Sam would never leave me just as I would never turn and sail away. Not memories, just Sauron fucking with my dreams. It’s the Ring,_ has _to be. Right?_

_“If you say so, Frodo Baggins.”_

This leg of their journey came to an end with a hiss of air brakes. Outside Mirkwood Goofy Golf, Emyn bid Frank and Stan and Smeagol goodbye and sent his love to little sister Sylvia.

And now, after days of floundering and hope pocket change scarce, the journey to Morder was at last in motion, and with Ocean City lunchtime surfing around, on the corner of The Coastal Highway and 127th Street, they stood…

“Uh…what now?”

“Tttttto Mmmmmordor?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, duh, shit for brains. I was thinking something more immediate. I’m starving!”

Standing there in the afternoon sun, Frodo caught a whiff of himself -  _Shit! I reek! -_  and decided he had had enough. Enough of bus stations, shelters, truck cabs and doing without. He wanted a shower, clean clothes, a hot meal. _And Sam_. Scanning the street, what he was looking for three blocks down: _an ATM machine just waiting for my business_. “Come on!”

“Frodo! Wait! Where are you going!”

Sam arrived as the money slipped out of the slot. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“A hotel with a shower.” He waved the bills under Sam’s nose. “A hotel with clean sheets and warm towels.” 

Sam looked at the money in Frodo’s hand. “You used plastic, didn’t you?”

“Have it for emergencies only. And if this doesn’t qualify as an emergency,” their rather unsightly appearance prima facie evidence, “I don’t know what does.”

"But, Gandalf said no -"

“A hotel with room service,  HBO, a big bed... and privacy.”

“A big bed _and_ privacy?” Away from Gollum, at the moment occupied with deep nose picking, against Frodo’s safety weighed carefully. “Still don’t think this is such a good idea.”

Sticking Master Card in this time, Frodo beeped for an additional $300.00. “Maybe we’ll get a room with a Jacuzzi, you, me, steam, bubblebath?” A wicked smile chipped away his lover’s resolve.

“Frodo…”

“Bilbo’s cards, register with fake names, anonymous as it comes, right?” Off to find the first hotel and some much deserved pampering. “Don’t worry, Sam, we’ll be perfectly safe.”

_“Of course you will, Frodo Baggins, of course you will.”_

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

Merry refused to let go. He steadfastly held on to the sleep that gave him soft beneath his head and warmth against his back. He refused to give in to the dawning awareness that forced its way inside his oblivion cocoon with pleasing sounds of morning birds and the tantalizing aromas of hickory smoked bacon. He refused to acknowledge the waking world despite the sheer joy of a tiny breeze on the back of his neck that tickled those hairs in a rhythm of deep slumber. If he could just hold on, turning away from today, the comfort body and mind so craved would be his again. His mind, heart and soul devoutly wished it to be so. His body, on the other hand, would not permit his escape, bladder in particular; it stamped for attention no matter how much remaining asleep was fought for. Merry reluctantly allowed the slumber mantel to fall and he welcomed the new day.

“Good morning, little one! Thought you’d sleep the day away.”

Merry refused to believe. He steadfastly held on to the reality that grounded him. He refused to understand what stood on the other side of the room.

“Suppose you must be hungry, after sleeping as long as you two did. Got bacon, eggs, toast and juice all ready. Just say the word.”

Merry refused to look. He didn’t watch the outrageously tall thing that puttered on the other side of the room. If he didn’t look at him, choosing to stare instead at the hard wooden planks of the floor and the massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, then it couldn’t be real, right? His eyes stayed firmly on the giant round bed where he and Pippin were but tiny lumps amid voluminous sheets. He concentrated on those things that made sense, instead of those that didn’t, like the view out the panoramic windows of the TOPS of trees and the infinity of sky. He kept to the familiar like the sleeping form curled up next to him.

“Will you be wanting a shower before breakfast, Merry, or the other way around, ‘cause either suits me fine.”

Merry refused to listen. He latched on to the brush of the breeze, the sighs of the walls and the tiny whir of the ceiling fan. He refused to listen, for if he did, if he spoke back to the thing who towered above the entire room, whose voice rumbled deep behind a beard the constancy and color of bark, then that would be acknowledgement of the impossible, and he could just go ahead, make the move and start receiving mail at his new address: insanity.

“I’ll take breakfast first, if you don’t mind. But, Merry here probably prefers a shower before eating. Don’t you, love?”

But, Merry could not deny what he saw before him. His Pippin, sleep windy hair, sheet impression red on the side of his face, white legs barely sticking out of the bottom of a nightshirt 10 times too big, climbing out of bed, walking over to accept a steaming mug of coffee from the Unreal’s huge hand. The evidence right there in front of him – _Pip is talking to…to a…._

Earnest wish granted. Merry refused to remain conscious.

“…and that’s when I drew the leaf on the stall door. I mean I had to do something to let them know we were still alive.”

Merry woke up this time to the sound of a beloved voice. No clue where they had landed this time, but as he listened to Pip - alive and happy – _Good start. I think._

“I wonder if Aragorn ever found my message. A long shot at best.”

Barely opening one eye, the only one that seemed to be working at the moment, he chose this time to process the unimaginable in tiny doses, the better to stay conscious that way. _White. That’s it._ Sheets tangled around legs and body. _OK, nothing bizarre there. Now…_ A slight shift drew a larger portion of the room into view. _Pip, end of bed, ridiculous shirt, and still talking to…to a…a –_ not a tree – _I’m an idiot! -_ a man - _an incredibly TALL man_ \- but, just a man nonetheless, with eyes the color of deep woods moss, hair reminiscent of the willow that weeped in Brandyhall’s garden, and a barkish beard cascading down his chest – _and dressed like a Monty Python lumberjack -_ plaid shirt, red suspenders, dungarees with patched knees, even the what had to be size 16 double E’s Carhardt work – _well, fuck me._

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Merry! You’re back!” Crawling up the bed, Pippin hugged his love fierce. “You scared me to death, passing out like that.”

The hug returned absently, Merry’s focus on feet. “It was you, you were there on the road.” Trapped under the orc pile, field of vision had allowed for only a small window of mucky trench and - “Those boots, I recognize your boots.You shot those orcs.”

Large head hung in chagrin. “Not proud of it, but yes, I was there.”

“The detour was his idea, too,” Pippin hugged Merry again, “That was sheer brilliance, Treebeard, if I do say so myself.”

“Had to get those orcs off the highway somehow,” knotty knuckles twisted tight, “Worked almost too well. Never knew what hit them.”

“Who else?” Now, unlike the mistaken talking tree thing, this revelation had the makings of a good morning, “How many of there were in the woods with you?”

“No one else.” Confession given to the floor. “Just me.”

And they were tipping back into _The Twilight Zone_ again. “Just – you killed those orcs, ALL those orcs – _yourself_?”

“Couldn’t let them continue, mangling and mauling,” that brought out the fire, head up, green moss thick with anger, “no more cutting, no more destruction, no more murder!”

_One guy, all dead. Unfucking believable._ A hideous, tortuous, grotesque death, that’s what he had wished for since the parking deck, what kept him going, banked revenge’s fire, the obliteration of each and every orc as payback for the pain and humiliation, _for Pippin, for Frodo, for the fucking asshole, both of them, they serve,_ a suffering, horrible death, _and by my hand alone,_ which tall guy here’s miracle on the road had taken away. No worries, though, satisfaction could still be had, crimes answered for, Justice wouldn’t leave empty handed before the end of all this. _There will be always more orcs._

“Wow, just fucking, amazing truly – don’t know what to say – yes, I do,” Merry grabbed hand, Treebeard’s inestimable gift, “Thank you, for what you did, thank you for saving his life.”

“Awww, Merry.” A sweet Pippin kiss.

Modesty waved away the praise. “What I did out there, a rash decision, a hasty act that I fear will bring more trampling trouble to my woods. Important thing, you and Pippin are safe here.”

“And exactly where is here? And, better questions, how and why?”

“Oh, that was Gandalf’s doing.”

From The Zone right into fantasy land. “Gandalf’s dead.”

“No, he’s not, Merry! Treebeard here spoke to him, saw him!” On his stomach, white legs sticking up, legs crossed, Pippin’s excitement beamed. “In fact, it was Gandalf who insisted on Treebeard helping us.”

Merry cocked an eyebrow. “You spoke with a dead man?”

Treebeard chuckled. “I assure you, Merry, that Gandalf is very much alive and well, and probably off creating mischief somewhere.”

The blackness was closing in on him again. “No fucking way! I saw him fall, you did too, Pip, watched him disappear down that goddamn hole!”

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Merry, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

_And now the tree’s quoting Shakespeare._ “OK, if Gandalf’s alive, bring him here, let me see for myself.”

“Sorry, can’t. As soon as he gave me instructions to care for you, oh, how’s the eye by the way?”

Touching his face, Merry felt the bandage winding around his head. “It hurts a little, but besides that, OK.”

Treebeard smiled. “Good. Like I told the kid, been quite some time since I did the first aid thing on humans. Trees, yes, humans, no.”

“Treebeard here is an Ent. He and his friends care for the forest. Fixing problems, putting out fires, sending the trees where they need to go, that sort of thing,” Pippin’s explanation fiddled with the rings on Merry’s hand. “Difficult and dangerous business, especially with Saruman so close.”

“Ent?” This conversation dribbling down to utter nonsense. “What the hell’s an Ent?”

Pip held up three fingers and pointed to one with each word. “Everybody…Needs…Trees. Ent!”

“You’re a treehugger?” The image of some squirrelly guy protesting, chaining his body to some trunk, a far cry from the rifle wielding, orc slaughtering bad ass on the road.

“Not hugger, herder, the hard job of telling the trees where they need to go. You know, to keep the forest healthy and strong.”

“Nah, this spot is easy compared to others. Those poor ones out west who battle wild fire. Or the Ents down in South America. Each year they see their flocks grow smaller and weaker as more are cut to make room for man’s invasion.” Treebeard’s voice slow and methodical. “Here is much simpler. Except for Saruman, of course. The damage he has done just to serve his twisted purposes has made the land bleed and cry out. Almost deafening.”

“Ent, huh? Sounds more like Environmental Nut Jobs, to me.”

Pippin tsked. “That would be Enj, Merry.”

“OK, Environmental Nut Cases, then.”

“Enc.”

_Enough bullshit._ “Pip, it doesn’t matter!” Yes, this guy had saved their lives, yes, he had stopped the Uruk-hai, and yes, he probably did a whole bunch of other stuff that might get him into the Greenpeace Hall of Fame, _but talking to moving trees?_ “Roots, in the ground, insentient plant life? No one shepherds trees around.”

Conviction took skepticism head on. “After everything we’ve seen, all the shit we’ve been through, the Ringwraiths, the orcs, the Balrog, is this so hard to accept? If the world can hold such evil mysteries as Sauron and the Ring, why can’t there be good ones, too?”

“Pip, it just doesn’t make sense!”

“Do you trust me, Merry?”

“That’s a stupid question. Of course I do!”

A whole heart and soul smile. “Then trust in me, and I’ll do the believing for the both of us.”

He wanted to, god, he really did, if Pippin asked he would go into the heaven/earth moving business, but - “Walking trees? Coming back from the dead?”

“Evil without the good is hopelessness. I need to believe in the good, Merry, or everything that’s happened is just…” too much to bear, “I NEED the good.”

Was the other side of that line, one step too far? “Pippin…”

“Can’t do anything about showing you Gandalf, Merry. He’s probably with the others by now. But, as to my trees, I would be honored if you would - ”

“Others?” _Hold up a minute there, Sparky._ “What others?”

“Friends he was meeting in the forest, I suppose. Said he had important business with all three.”

_Three? Three. Who would zombie Gandalf be meeting in the -_ “Aragorn?” Had to be, if they had been following, chasing the Uruk-hai. “Are you talking about Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas?” _Now, there’s something I can believe in._

Treebeard scratched his face, a dry, rasping sound. “Didn’t tell me names, but Saruaman’s been causing trouble for those horse people, so I do know he was heading to Rohan south of here.”

“Ooh, south, that’s right, Merry,” Pippin’s interruption spring up from the bed, “Treebeard said that you can call your folks. They’re only about two hours away and we can -”

“No.” _Oh, fuck no._ “Not calling home.”

“But, you call, they send a car. We could be out of this mess -”

_And into a sucking black hole of one._ “I said no! Subject closed. No one is calling my parents!”

The vehemence stunned Pippin back down to the bed without a word, and Merry seethed mute, so it was up to Treebeard’s cough to clear a path through the awkward.

“Well, seeing as how you two are on the mend, guess I best be off.” He stood smoothly, pulling oversized frame out of Adirondack. “Got plenty to do before they get here.”

Merry looked up. And up. And up. “Before who – the others? Aragorn is coming -”

“No, my brethren. We’re having a sort of little get together, potluck, an informal meeting, to discuss the EPA’s new regulations, the population explosion of red squirrels, get ready for the coming winter, that sort of thing.”

_Ah, now, here’s some of that good for you, Pip._ “So there will be more of you, what’s that word, Ents running around this place?”

“Don’t know that there’ll be much running,” the laugh for a joke understood only by the teller, “but, yeah, all of us in a two hundred mile radius.”

“And how many is that?”

“Depends, I know Alder can’t be here, has a Civil War reenactment to supervise, and Heath’s still got that bug, so I’m thinking around twenty-five maybe.”

“When?”

A glance to the right, travel time calculating. “Giving that the weather holds, I would say in about three days.”

_Perfect._ Neck protested the steep looking up angle, so the solution - stand up on the bed. Not high enough. The headboard. Still not quite there, but it would have to do, _‘cause I ain’t hanging from the rafters in just a nightshirt,_ “Three days. I hate to impose upon your hospitality, Treebeard, but may we stay here with you until this meeting of yours?”

A Pippin double take. “Merry, three days?”

“Want to see these other Ents for myself, that’s all. Want to believe in the good, Pip. May we, Treebeard?”

“By all means, Merry,” a delighted chuckle, “More than happy to have the company. You and Pippin are welcome in my home for as long as you wish to stay.”

“Thank you, Treebeard.” Merry extended a gentleman’s hand, got a hair ruffle instead.The indignity borne with teeth clenched aplomb. “Again.”

“Must go now, gentlemen. Your breakfast still awaits. Eat all you like, make yourselves at home. Will probably be dark before I return.” Treebeard smiled at his guests once more before exiting the room by the huge front door.

“Hot damn!” Merry performed the perfect swan dive off the headboard, nary a ripple in the sheets. “We can stay!”

“And why do we want to stay?”

“Because, Pip,” master plan set in motion, necessities called hunger making a beeline for the kitchen and breakfast “If one Ent can mow down a handful of orcs, think what twenty-five can do?”

“Twenty-five Ents can do what?”

“Against Saruman,” answer around the piece of toast in his mouth. “You want eggs?”

“No, thank you. Do what against Saruman?”

“Destroy the son of a bitch, and I want to be here to watch the slaughter. Bacon?”

A swallow around tinged green gills. “Not really hungry all of a sudden.”

Merry shrugged, adding more to his plate. “Suit yourself.”

“Treebeard’s covered dish thing, is that why you don’t want to call home, so you can be here?”

“Uh…” a hedged truth, “…yeah.”

“Then you’ll call them after?”

A flat refusal. “No.”

“Why don’t you want to call your parents, Merry?”

“Nothing to say.”

“You haven’t spoken to them in over a year. Don’t you think they deserve to know their son is OK?”

Merry stopped eating. “Pip I love you, but what goes on in the Brandybuck family is really no concern of yours.”

“All Brandybucks, no, just one.” From the bed, Pippin padded barefoot to the table, a monstrous log, sawn in half and mirror polished. “I’m worried about you. Family is the one place you can go no matter what. Stupid shit, or god awful, they’re always there to catch you. Can’t imagine living without family.”

“That’s you, the Tooks, not me.”

“But, what happened between you and yours? I don’t understand, please tell me.”

A heartless laugh. “Believe me, Pip, you don’t want to know.”

“Yes, yes, I do! If it concerns you, it concerns me.”

“I’m gonna’ eat the rest of the bacon if you don’t want any.”

“Go ahead, eat it. Just tell me.”

Sighing, Merry set down his fork, knowing he would get no peace until he gave up some kind of satisfaction. “Let’s just say my parents and I don’t see eye to eye on every choice I’ve made.”

Pippin frowned. “It can’t be career. They should be proud of a son who graduates from Columbia and is accepted to its prestigious law school, too.”

“You’d think that wouldn’t you?” Merry gulped his OJ. “You’d think that’d be enough.”

A hemp placemat fretted with Pippin’s fingers. “So that’s what the rift is then, school?”

“No, something a little more personal, and I don’t want to talk about this.”

“The piercings, maybe? The tattoos? My mama would have a fit of apoplexy, waving her arms and calling for strength from sweet Jesus if I ever came home with so much as a notion to get -”

“No, my Dad was a Marine,” into the fridge looking for jelly to go with the toast, “he’s got Semper Fi right across his chest.”

“Ok, not school, not tattoos. Where you live?”

“Pip, I told you I don’t want to talk about this!”

“Clothes, music, diet?” Ignoring the Merry meltdown warning signs, Pippin dug deeper, “because you don’t go to Mass anymore, vote Democrat, or – I know! There’s another family member involved, difference of opinion, everybody taking sides, an argument of us against them, I’m right, aren’t I? Started out over Thanksgiving turkey probably, when your Uncle -”

The jelly jar slammed down hard, tiny cracks in the glass paralleling the label. “It’s you, Pip! They don’t like _you_!”

“Me?” Righteous indignation thy name is Peregrin Took. “They don’t like _me_? They’ve never even met me! How can – why would - everybody likes me!”

Jelly began to ooze out, sticky blobs on the counter. “It’s not you specifically. It’s just the idea of you.”

“I don’t understand.” But, then he did, the math of Y plus Y equals… “Oh. I see.”

“No, Pip, no, you don’t see.” Sponge snatched up to clean blackberry mess, suddenly weary, Merry instead sought the sink’s support. _Christ, I didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want him to know, to know that I’m a – that there’s a -_ “My whole life, even down to the day and time of my birth, has been planned. My name decided upon on their honeymoon. Great, great, great, too many fucking greats, Uncle Meriadoc who fought with Washington at the Battle of the Brandywine. Preschool at just the right place, perfect suit and tie for confirmation, altar boy, best mix of academic and athletic awards from the most prestigious catholic high school. An impressive college, grad school, come back home and join the firm. Enter the social scene and eventually take my father’s place on the inner circle without anyone noticing the difference. Even picked out the girl I’m supposed to marry, already booked the church, hired the caterer. So, you can see why the revelation that the love of my life, you, is a man did nothing to endear me to my parents.”

“Do you like her?” Quiet question asked of the swirly grained wood.

“Estella? She’s a very nice person.”

“Are you going to marry her?” The first push.

Merry sighed again. “I love you, Pip. I told my parents that, we had a fight and now we’re not talking. There. That’s the whole story.”

“Are you going to marry her?” And another.

“I just told you -”

“Are you going to marry her?” This one harder.

“Pip, you’re not listening -”

“Goddamnit, Merry, the fucking truth here.” Hand slam to the shiny wood. “Are you going to marry her?” The final push –

“I don’t know!” – at last reached the truth.

Seconds ticked, eyes blinked, a crack appeared.

“Going to take a shower.” Pippin turned away, further thoughts a mumble.

_Fucking moron! Why did you say that!_ Savagely tossing the sponge back in the sink, Merry went to make things right. “Look, Pip, fuck my parents, I love you, and that’s all that -”

“GET OFF ME! GET OFF! _GET OFF_!”

The shove away troubling, the slaps and punches frightening, the shrieks of unbridled terror sickening.

“GET AWAY! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

“Pippin! Hey! It’s over!” That danger no longer existed, lying dead on the road, yet this foe lived on. “It’s me, it’s Merry!”

“Merry?” The memory faded, bleaching out Pippin to stark white. “Oh, god, Merry, oh, god, what did I - it was, you know, arms from behind, just like, just like at the -” tears, big and fat and forever tainted trickled down his chin, “I’m sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, so -” Shamed apologies fled the room.

The Ent meeting couldn’t happen fast enough for Merry.

_Not that I hadn’t already hurt him._ “Fucking idiot!” The ceiling fan bore the brunt of his self-flagellation. “’I don’t know.’ Why the FUCK did I say that?”

Why indeed? He had not thought about Estella in so long, putting her in the same trash bag with his parents and their demands on his life. All should have been taken outside to the dumpster when he had declared his independence from the Brandybuck stranglehold. Yet, here they were, still on the back steps, forcing him to step around as he careened through the past.

Never meant for Pippin to be put in the middle, always thought it would be one of his other choices, like turning his back on religious dogma that would finally toll the death knell to an already rocky relationship with his parents. How could something like loving Pippin be twisted and perverted as his mom and dad had described? If only they knew him, he had tried to reason with them, could get to know him, then they, too, would fall in love as he had. His quick wit, big heart, that gift of seeing right through all the bullshit to the real issue, his world view, not cynicism, but with a joy that sometimes brought tears to Merry’s eyes. That was the Pippin they needed to meet, the man who had taken a sullen, disenchanted college student and made him see not just the dark clouds, but the music of a rainstorm. He had begged his parents, but they had refused, calling him unnatural, immoral and the devil for taking their son away. Cut off, disinherited, Merry had left the room after that, didn’t even bother to pack his things, just walked from his father’s study and those hateful words right out to his car. He drove straight through to New York, stepped into their apartment and took Pippin to bed to make love for the first time.

_Why wouldn’t they listen? Why couldn’t they understand? Why didn’t they want me to be me?_

He made him laugh. Sometimes just a thought of Pippin would have him giggling hysterically, usually in the most inopportune places. He made him proud. Pippin took his studies very seriously and made the choice, instead of a big bank account, to devote his life in service to others, to become a public defender. He made him horny. A flash of green, a rakish waggle of an eyebrow sent all the blood rushing to crotch and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he held Pippin sweat slicked and spent beneath him. And, of course he made Merry smile. Zest for life, fierce loyalty to friends and causes, stupid little things, like Buffy marathons and alphabetized soup cans in the cupboard or the yummy sound he makes with each spoonful of butter pecan ice cream. Everything Pippin made Merry happy. Pippin made Merry, well, merry.

_And, goddamnit, I want that always!_

But, did he? A life with Pippin, is that all he wanted? Or was there more?

Being a Brandybuck meant privilege, position, people deferring to opinions, an automatic place at the table, a cringe worth obsequiousness that Merry couldn’t disavow quick enough. _I hated that!_ Yes, he may bare the same name, but accomplishments and strength of character would be his admission price to influence and success, not the accident of his DNA.

Being a nobody, however, a nothing, a disposable pawn in a game of constantly changing rules, when breath could be strangled out just because, greater powers battling so far above torment and sacrifice passes unrewarded, his life unscrawled in the dust. _I fucking hate that!_ Yes, he had turned away from his birthright, but impotent anonymity was an unpalatable virtue he refused to accept.

_Won’t be invisible, won’t be powerless, never again, and if my name can – but, fuck, all the Brandybuck baggage!_

He had spoken the truth, Estella was a nice person. Not what one would call beautiful, but intelligent and stable. Solid, charming, her bona fides impeccable, her taste classic.

_The perfect corporate wife._

Just wanted to talk, that’s all, her assurances over the phone sweet, almost convincing, came all the way to New York to surprise you, can’t we just meet somewhere, Meriadoc?

Still pissed over his parent’s rejection, nasty words scored red, he had refused a meet up at their apartment, but she was a friend and here in town, suggesting instead a little deli round the corner.

“You look happy, Doc,” an under the eyelash observation, “very happy.”

“Because I am, Stell,” mouth full of pastrami, “Never been happier.”

“Your mom told me what’s going on, told me about…him.”

“Him has a name, and Pippin’s the main reason for my happiness.”

Her fork moved through the side item coleslaw, and any trench scratched quickly filled with the mayonnaise dressing. “I’d like to meet him.”

Harsh napkin swipe at mustard dribble. “No, I don’t think so. He’s not going to become fodder for the gossip mill back home. You can tell my mother that if she wants to know Pip, then she can just -”

“Came here on my own, Doc, your mom and dad don’t know I’m here.”

Setting down his sandwich, the subject had to be broached. “Then why are you here? Why did you come?”

Cabbage abandoned for direct eye contact. “It’s not me, you know that, don’t you? I’m not the one pushing to get married. Hell, my opinion wasn’t even asked when the invitations were picked out. I don’t like being the silent part of a business deal. I want you to know that.”

“And you’re telling me this because?”

“I like you, Doc. We’ve been friends since catechism class. You make me laugh, you’re strong and decent, trustworthy, hardworking -”

A self-deprecating wave for silence. “Enough of my bad qualities, Stell.”

“Like I said, you’re a good man. I like you and think you’d make a fine husband.”

“Estella…” Is she really going to go _there_?

“I like you, but I don’t love you. Don’t know that I ever could.”

“I love Pippin, always will. He’s it for me.”

“I could live with that, you know.”

A cream soda spit take. “Stell, what, what exactly are you saying?”

She placed her hand over his, squeezing. “A safe home, financial security, a few kids, a comfortable life, that’s all I really want. If the Brandybuck name comes with that, so much the better. Don’t need love, Doc. I understand about you and Pippin, and I can accept that. Should you ever want the same things, then let me know. I’ll marry you. Already have the dress.”

Estella brushed a kiss on his cheek, left the deli, and returned to Pennsylvania without another word.

He had never told Pippin about Estella or her offer, secretly holding it as an option. _The whole cake and eating, too, one._ Made him feel deceitful and like a coward. He knew any kind of arrangement that saw him a husband to Estella and a lover to Pippin, would only be endured in the end through copious amounts of gin. Push Pip under the carpet, back into the closet, hide him in the shadows as if he – they – were wrong? _Love him too fucking much._

But, embracing Brandybuck would open coffers he could never hope to amass by himself in a civil rights private practice, and all that could certainly peddle influence fast and hard in the right directions. _Could be the anit-Koch Brothers._

So, here he was, at a crossroads, looking down both streets, yearning for what each could offer him. Pippin meant freedom, ecstasy, an unblemished conscious, a lifetime of love with maybe a chance to make a difference. With Estella came recognition, instantaneous respect and the means to guarantee change.

_Which way, what life? No fucking clue._

His little mishap with the jelly jar clean, the breakfast dishes washed and put away, _and a session of “What do I want to be when I grow up?”_ Merry became concerned that Pip still had not come out of the bathroom. Walking to the door, he knocked softly, but could not hear over the rushing water of the shower. He opened the door, immediately blinded by the steam. “Pip? You OK?”

No answer, but now that the open door had bled off some of the hot shower mist, the hunched figure through the shower curtain visible. _Oh, Pippin._ Full clothed and in a tight ball, in the bathtub, weeping.

“What are you doing?”

About his legs, bobbing in the water yet to drain, the empty containers of every cleansing product the shower housed. Pippin smelled of jasmine, honeysuckle, aloe vera and Old Spice. “Tried to wash it, Merry, wash it off. The stink, the touch, won’t go, it won’t wash away. I can still smell it. Still feel it.”

No hesitation, curtain drawn aside, he stepped into the shower, sat down and took Pippin into his arms.

“You’ll get wet.”

“Too late for that. Needed a shower anyway.”

“I love you, Merry.” New tears welled in Pippin’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to like it, I still love you, please, you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t mean to like, forgive me, Merry, please forgive.”

“Ssshhh, now, it's alright, you're safe, I've got you.” His  kiss lean-in rebuffed.

“I can’t, not right now, sorry, so sorry, I just - don’t hate me, Merry, don’t hate me.”

_I will kill them all._  “No kiss, OK, but I can hold you, can’t I? Let me hold you, just let me hold you.”

Pip latched on to soaking clothes, his body plastered impossible close. “Yes, hold me, please hold me, hold me, Merry, hold me forever.”

Sitting on the bottom of the tub, now gone to cold shower spraying down, Merry held his lover to his chest, comforting the deep hurt, knowing that, despite all the wishes in the world, all the compromises given and accepted, it might never be forever.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Please accept my humble apology for the huge gap between chapter postings. Many compelling reasons for my AO3 absence, but none really worth bothering you with, gentle readers. Just know that, from here, chapters will be posted on time and on schedule, every other week until story's end. Then it’s “The Ring Unmade,” and “After The Ring.”

Thank you for your patience and continued support.

B

**The Ring Goes South**

Chapter Seven

 

 

 

Drawing in deeply, Aragorn the unsettled observer of pipe smoke toyed about by the evening breeze. From the garden gazebo, in front of him, the green expanse of Edoras’ front lawn, to his back the big house where inside stood one accused of possession of stolen property.

_Gandalf dead. Gandalf alive._

Still hard to wrap mind around that one, even though he had ridden side by side with the man all the way here.

“A second chance,” the old man had not quite explained when repeatedly pressed for details, “to complete my original assignment.” And the story of what happened with the Balrog - “Had to chase the bloody thing all over the place, up and down, in and out, until the final death blow. Mine, of course. The Balrog fell, as did I. Nothing, sparkly lights, then I’m lying naked on the forest floor.” – even more bizarre.

Yes, he _was_ here, Gandalf was alive, the same, yet not, now shining brilliant with conviction and renewed purpose, and looking spiffy all in white.

_His dry cleaning bills will be hell, though._

Gandalf was alive, Merry and Pippin escaped the orcs, the Riddermark family restored to health, all good, all satisfying, when measured against the stacked against them odds, every one a stunning victory. But, Frodo and Sam were still unaccounted for, Sauron’s influence continued to violate and grow, and just over the border a mere twelve miles away, Saruman’s Uruk-hai army daily amassed exponentially, whipped to a frenzy over the loss of the prize, utter annihilation of Rohan the ultimate goal. And what was he doing to combat and confront this evil?

_Uh…_

It rankled, this inactivity, it pestered and poked, so many things to do, so many fires and foes, time ticking ever faster down to defeat. He should be up, moving forward, getting closer, stand and fight, not standing still. Body thrummed with the need for positive motion, but the roadblock?

_Helm’s Deep_

An old bunker built during those crazy days of the Sixties and advertised as strong enough to hold back “The Red Menace,” would become Rohan’s refuge against Saruman’s orc blitzkrieg. Hiding in a hole, even a reinforced concrete one with its own air filtration system, had – for the man known to enjoy the view from the front lines - doomed to become a grave written all over it. But, the retreat had been Gandalf’s idea –

_And who am I to argue with the resurrected?_

So, that’s why the waiting, for planning, for preparations, for word to be sent and received by all of Rohan’s people, for others to coordinate this impossibly ginormous operation squished down into a 24 hour frame, his role in the mad scramble, security during the transfer, scheduled to begin at 0800, and a long, tedious four hours away. Until then?

_Uhm…_

Ashes tapped out against boot, pipe readied for the fourth time tonight. All around, the farm belying the frantic tensions fraying underneath, quiet peace and starlight. _Someone’s still working, though._ The stables, farm’s office, he recalled, a light shone in defiance of slumber’s rules. _Theoden, maybe. Which means -_ Hands manic eager ready to be more than ass warmed jogged through the darkness.

_Or, if I’m lucky…_

 

*****  
 

 

Sipping herbal tea with clover honey in Edoras’ kitchen, a much needed hydration respite, Legolas tapped on his I-Pad putting everything in order - calendar, checking email, updating his contact list. _Frodo and Sam – still missing. Mithrandir – back from the Halls of Mandos. Merry and Pippin – well tended and protected._ This remarkable news received upon an astounding arrival, the branch breaking through setting sun haloing round about, visage held obscured until a step down from the stump prompted near fits of apoplexy from the awestruck audience of three, the fallen returned with impeccable, and a smidge theatrical, style. But, as to the subject of how and why, where and with whom the two friends now sheltered the old man had remained perversely mute in the face of concerned questions’ barrage, offering only cryptic philosophizing – “Those two have their own purpose to fulfill, I believe, best not to distract them from it.” At the time Legolas had not pressed, every moment too precious a commodity to waste in quizzing the recalcitrant, all would be revealed eventually. Yet, patience, long life’s cultivated virtue, would be stretched to the limit in the coming hours, as the escape to Helm’s Deep grew near.

Consolidate all of Rohan into one defensible position instead of spread out across thousands of acres where no one held sufficient strength to resist Saruman, the Gandalf approved plan. Reservations still nagged, though, too many variables – structural integrity, supply lines, were they gathering people able to fight and ready to die - and too few constants, except the one that had Arda’s hope hiding in a hole in the ground.

That same wisdom, though, he had followed unfailingly before, had seen Merry and Pippin to safety, and Rohan must now trust to the same for her survival.

Mug empty, and feeling uncharacteristically fidgety, the knowledge gaps too wide to comfortably ignore, Legolas glanced at his tablet again. _Only 2:03. Plenty of time for a rousing game of chess._ He left the kitchen in search of Gimli.

  


****  
 

 

Back to page one, the lines of the decades old blue prints faded and fuzzy. Helm’s Deep indeed was a marvel of engineering, a fallout shelter built to withstand the blast of an atomic weapon and keep its occupants safe from the nuclear winter that would inevitably follow that end of the world scenario. Constructed to hold only a handful of families, now the bunker would be asked to house all of Rohan, and Gimli’s job, as facilities manager, had to make it so.

Page three detailed the underground rooms, wide and spacious, and he figured some towards the front would serve as the stables as well as weapons storage and larder. Which meant the smaller rooms deep within the hills became living quarters for all non-fighting personnel. Not great to put horses between people and fresh air, but the uppermost portions needed to be kept clear of distracting traffic for the nasty battle to come.

_From all sides events press in, hope left with little room to draw breath._

Gimli held no illusions. Though a formidable hole to hide in, the battle for Helm’s Deep would be fierce and bloody, and many would fall before the end. The Dark Lord’s shadow, allowed to fester unheeded far too long, could only be purged by the fire of sacrifice.

_The Dark Lord. Fire. Sacrifice._

Merry and Pippin had escaped fatal danger – returned from the dead Gandalf’s word of their rescue accepted as gospel – and Saruman would feel the sharp edge of Gimli’s wrath for daring to threaten those precious lives. But, what of Frodo and Sam? No word, no whisper since the Fellowship had crumbled. All of Rohan’s resources may prove inadequate to stem even The White Hand’s malevolent tide -

_And those two travelled to Mordor to face Sauron all alone?_

Not normally a gloomy person, this feeling of melancholia new, unsettling and unwelcome. He could think of only one way to chase away his dark thoughts. Quickly folding up the blue prints and tucking them under his arm, he went in search of a mood lifting solution.

_Where’s Legolas? Need a good argument._

  


*****   


 

Theoden picked through the piles and stacks on his desk, months of Rohan business and none of it familiar. He couldn’t remember any of it, nothing but that drooling, incompetent puppet of Saruman.

“Damn you!” Arm swipe banished the paper mountains, the physical reminders of his weakness scattering to the floor.

Tired, exhausted beyond reason, that’s how it had all started. He would sleep 8, 10, 12 hours a night, yet still his limbs moved like lead, his brain muddy and slow. An entire HMO directory of specialists could only come up with ‘unknown causes’ and ‘inconclusive findings’, his bedside table a dazzling pharmacopoeia of bottles full of all the latest drugs, prescribed regime followed exactly until it became apparent that with, or without the pills, his condition continued to worsen.

_I gave up. I gave in._

But, it had been so easy to hand things over, and after relinquishing control of that first responsibility, simple correspondence with customers, feeling the relief in knowing the burden no longer his, Theoden, so weary, so worn out, had let go of it all to sink into his world of endless exhaustion.

_Gave it all to Grima._

Now, his mistakes were obvious, now hindsight could see trust had been misplaced. Sharp wits would have booted the toady right from the start. _No, never should have been hired in the first place._ Impeccable resume, glowing recommendations, though, and Theoden had had no reason to doubt the serendipity of his employment, hired precisely when need was the greatest. No other references needed, not when the only one came from such a friend as Saruman, Rohan and Isengard the exception to the ‘good fence equals good neighbor’ adage, no animus whatsoever between property owners, each left to their own private and business pursuits. Saruman, in fact, usually spent most of his time at Columbia, using his compound in Pennsylvania as sort of vacation retreat, holding seminars about ‘Finding Your Inner Enlightenment’ and ‘The Power of Your Mind: Unleash It Today!’ All bunk to Theoden’s line of staunchly practical reasoning, but nothing to cause suspicious concern. Even when Saruman became a motorcycle enthusiast, and biker gangs could be seen coming and going at all hours, no alarm bells sounded.

_Each to his own, right?_

Missing colts pastured up north for the summer, the first indication that a storm was brewing. Grima’s explanation for the disturbing events - simple record keeping errors, or gross incompetence, or perhaps even employee malfeasance. Too tired to focus, Theoden had believed ever word. By the time the burning of the land started, his world had crumpled into the small space of a room and dreams of death. Rohan, everything, ceased to be his concern.

_Little of nothing do I remember of that wretched state. But, lost memory’s sword holds a sharp double edge._

Grima, ubiquitous sneer and oily voice, was, however, regrettably unforgettable. And Saruman’s frequent visits to the hazy space, whether physically or some other fantastical way not worth knowing, were also clear. No…yes…perhaps there had been others to break through, images, faces blurred on the outskirts, Theodred, Eomer maybe, even his wife, though not possible, his soul mate dead these past 12 years. Therefore, illusion and mockery, and all of it tricks to fool him, confound and confuse, and Theoden had retreated further, huddled paranoia in a muddled world.

_No, that’s not right. I DO remember, her face, kind, soothing, reaching for me, her face through the fog, and her face when set free._

Wrenched from opposite ends, beyond comprehension, why, WHY, for god’s sake, just let me die! He had wailed in agony, good and bad cursed in equal measure, his mind their battleground, his life their plaything. Scorn versus encouragement, contemptuous laughter against unblemished righteousness, he would snap, shred, dragged to the edge he would tumble over to shatter, sanity’s pieces scattered irretrievable. No more, please, _please,_ no - _FLASH!_ White brilliance consumed, and deep sunk claws were torn away, wounds cauterized instantly by flame inextinguishable, the usurper shoved back into the abyss.

_And for the first time, the first time in forever…_

The torture eased, the mist receded, lucidity restored and with clear eyes, he saw –

Theodred, his pride and joy, but Eowyn always his heart. The spitting image of her mother, he felt blessed to be given the chance to watch his little sister, grow up all over again. All blonde curls and giggles, his niece had charmed every ranch hand who would indulge the little girl’s fancies by taking her under their wing. Just play at first, until it became clear that she intended to be a working member of the family, carrying her own weight about the farm. Unlike her mother and aunt, both more aware of the Riddermark obligations to community, their energies focused outwards, local politics and charitable organizations their specialty, Eowyn had made her own mark, outside of the teas and socials, earning begrudging acceptance from the more traditional of Rohan’s workers.

_Tough lesson for some, that No is not in her vocabulary._

When her father died, a silly accident with a thrasher, Eowyn had redoubled her load, taking on extra duties despite big brother’s efforts to dissuade her. Eomer had dealt with their father’s death, grieving in private, the memorial service an intimate, family affair. But, Eowyn never did, choosing hard work to cover and bury the tragedy, school and stalls, tack and training, every moment of her day rushing as if pursued, her demons relentless.

_Until tragedy struck once more._

Unable to stand a life without her husband, his beautiful, wickedly funny, heart full of love for all sister had surrendered, simply faded away, no matter the family gathered around for comfort and consolation, her pointless death all the more cruel for she took Eowyn with her. Or so it had seemed for a while. Shut down, shut out, acceptance of both parents’ deaths brutally forced on her, Eowyn had curled into herself, despair bottomless and cloying, jealously repelling offers of sympathy and solace. Determined to defeat the despondency that had claimed one too many lives already, each day Theoden had set aside a portion of his busy day to go to the stable, just to small talk, to listen, to remind and reinforce – the horses needed her, the farm needed her, **_he_** needed her - and each day incrementally, the potentially mortal wound healed. On the day Theoden spied her riding out across the pasture, curls wind whipped and carefree, he had wept tears of joy.

_My niece restored, and in a way, so was my sister._

And it was that precious face, so open and loving, his inestimable gift upon waking from Saruman’s curse. Which had, much to his mortification, attracted quite a crowd, sickroom jammed rafters full of gawkers. Old friend Gandalf looking as spiffy and well-groomed as that tall, lean stranger was grimy scruffy. There was a bearded, dumpy man idiot grinning, dumbstruck foreman Gamling, a weeping housekeeper, a few stable hands in the back overjoyed at their first glimpse of the boss in over six months, but it was The Thing, The Thing who had used, abused the trust bestowed, The Thing who had lied and cheated and perverted, deliberately stripping away humanity, nearly delivering Rohan into the grasping hands of another, the puling, whimpering, servile Thing head-locked by some imperious blond guy, despite all he could have, should have done – hug Eowyn, thank savior and staff, even attempt to rise from his chagrined prostrated position on the floor with some modicum of dignity - it was The Thing’s, Grima’s demise that burned with moral imperative.

_Wanted nothing else, but his death by my hand._

And it might have come to pass had cooler heads not intervened, had stronger arms not held justified recompense back. Hardly content, then, with giving Grima a lovely parting gift, still professing his innocence, he had slunk back to his master untouched, the taxi’s windshield splattered with Theoden’s spit.

_And what of his machinations, the world I re-awoke to? Madness._

Great-grandfather’s family legends had come to pass - Isildur’s Bane, The Great Eye, a devouring pestilence, with all that Theoden held dear poised to be laid waste by still frothing Saruman unwittingly furthering Sauron’s plan of domination. That the Ringbearer and his companion were thought far from here helped not at all, Rohan was still vulnerable, her time almost out.

Always a forthright man, his first inclination was to ride out and hit the son of a bitch hard, face to face. Gandalf, however, advised an alternate plan: retreat to a defensible position, then make the enemy come to them, to the place and time of their choosing - the old fallout shelter in Quarryville. Built by his great uncle, a rabid Republican and McCarthy acolyte, Helm’s Deep a family oddity that had served as a pretty cool clubhouse for him and his cousins, and for all the Riddermark teens, the perfect make-out spot. Lofty history aside, the idea of hiding in a hole unpalatable, the coward runs away, but Rohan had suffered in his absence, and assuaging his vainglorious pride too steep a price to ask her people to pay.

_And the debt I owe to them for my weakness will never be cleared._

About his feet, the mess anger made still waited, yet all trivial now, those reports on the price of feed, genealogical charts, council board meeting minutes, in the shadow of Saruman’s threat. So, he left it there, the task of sorting and cleaning for later – _should it ever come –_ for another, the worst a parent must face.

_To visit the grave of my child._

 

 

*****

 

_This can’t be right._

The mouse moved smooth atop the John Deere pad, Eowyn scrolling though the list for a third time, but the column of numbers reached the same conclusion as before. One day, had 24 hours to gather in the outlying regions, pack up stables, stock and Edoras, and cart all of Rohan down to that dark, dank concrete cave in Quarryville. A nightmare of logistics, and in a moment of familial pride insanity, she had volunteered for the unenviable job of procuring the funds to pay for the whole operation.

_And we are so screwed._

Held tight in Gima’s slimey fist, with access only gained a few scant hours ago, the farm’s books were in shambles. Not only had Saruman’s meddling included the destruction of her uncle’s mind and sabotaging their property, but complete and utter financial ruin of Rohan as well, their liquidity sucked dry by sketchy investments, and skimming that had gouged to the bone. Equity in the houses and land was still there, of course, the horses and equipment, everything tangible more than enough to buy on credit what they needed in feed and transportation, with a little for side extras, mix liberally with some called in favors, they just might scrape by.

_But, for how long?_

The only deadline discussed at the frantically convened meeting over Edoras’ huge dining table, departure for Helm’s Deep. The return home after the attack when left dangling out there with an unspoken, yet shouted too loud, if.

_Too greedy to hope for yet another miracle?_

She had already witnessed one today – Uncle Theoden’s return. Been there, right here holding his all too frail and unmoving body as the wrinkles and age spots disappeared, the debilitating sickness melting away, the cloud of confusion vanishing. Tears disobeyed the never cry in public rule as the man she adored smiled up at her once more. Why, she didn’t really care, at long last he was whole again - except for wholly unwarranted guilt which she would set immediately to work on erasing - while the how of her uncle’s inexplicable recovery stood close by.

_OK, two miracles today._

The heads up from her brother of possible visitors had given some advanced warning, but what and who had actually arrived…perhaps those childhood tales of a crazy old man in a pointy hat gadding about the countryside, mischief following close behind really were overlayered with some truth. Pretty as you please, as if nothing were amiss and his possession of the inestimable worth beneath mattered for naught, the old man in white had rode right up the driveway on Shadowfax. His greeting warm to a fury stammering Eowyn, inquiring after her health and Eomer’s, too, but not waiting for a answer, breezing by the precipitant erupting volcano to enter the house, explanations for the prized stallion’s sudden reappearance by default foisted upon the short man, Gimli, an apologetic, but abysmal liar. Some cockamamie story about finding the horse and asking him for a ride, that nonsense cut short, she had snatched the reins away, and walked back to where Rohan’s prize belonged, the phrasing of her criminal complaint for felony robbery composed on the way. Out of her care for several days, the horse assuredly would exhibit signs of his traumatic captivity. Nothing, though, no sign of abuse, malnutrition or stress even, Shadowfax calm and still perfection after her thorough examination, content to lounge munching oats and nuzzling her neck with an “I’m back.” But, that did not let the thief off the hook, not by a long shot, and confrontation rife with righteous indignation had stormed over to the house, primed and ready to throw all her mind’s pieces at the old man, then throw the geezer out. She never got near him.

_OK, three miracles. Well, maybe two and one mystery._

Uncle on the floor by his wheelchair writhing in pain, Shadowfax’s captor, white cane wielded high above his head, shouting ultimatums to an unseen foe, Grima held like a flopping fish (the only cheery aspect of that tableau) and she impotent to act, rush to her uncle’s side, by strong arms snagging her out of the way, and keeping her place there. Pipe smoke and leather had held her fast, and she could feel his touch still alone in the stable office.

_Wonder what he’s doing tonight?_

Aragorn, that was his name, friend of Gandalf the horse rustler and apparently some big wig with Arda, here for Rohan’s aid. Aragorn, the man with the temporary limp inflicted by her instep stomp to be free, Aragorn, her No Love At First Sight barricade chinked by the man’s blue eyes.

_Shouldn’t be thinking about him, must figure out this mess, why am I even thinking about him?_

Why, after the paint of acquaintance was still wet, just the mere blip of him could make her go all mushy inside, and wonder about how her hair looked – _no doubt dreadful at two AM –_ or if this shirt color was flattering to skin tone – _sweat and worry out for every season._ Wasted energy and wasted time, all over a man too busy for second thought’s turning to her with preparations she herself should also be at this moment buried under.

_He did look at me over the table, several times, though._

Throughout the long evening and marathon meeting – background info shared, dire situation outlined, plans for retreat and entrenchment mapped and finalized – while mind had focused, eyes had wandered and every time they had found his out for a similar stroll. And each rendezvous their conversation had deepened.

_Didn’t imagine that. Unless I did._

Maybe he was just being polite, make nice with niece of their host and all, maybe sizing up her intestinal fortitude, neither wanting nor needing a dead silly woman weight hanging around his responsibility, or maybe it was sheer boredom as the argument over tactics and Helm’s Deep had dragged on into hour number three. Whatever the reason, dawn was knocking to enter now, and, while dream date mooning, the solution to their financial straits, the lazy bum, had failed to solve itself.

_Your uncle needs you, Wyn, Rohan needs you._

Here in her office, however, in mind’s private corner, the day’s miracles could ruminate, and, free from embarrassing romantic faux pas worry, wish’s secret could long to be held in mystery’s arms again.

_Maybe hiding in the hole won't be so bad after all._

  


 

*****

 

 

The report given, Saruman replaced the velvet that kept the ancient seeing stone away from unworthy prying eyes. An added bonus to his residence at Isengard, the black orb found in the attic buried under years of detritus, and being a history buff of sorts, its importance immediately understood. Research had enlightened to its potential, practice honed his skill and destiny had sealed the partnership with Sauron.

Of course, his own Quest for The One Ring had been conveniently omitted from the report, The Dark Lord never inquiring, too arrogant to entertain betrayal, and Saruman had not offered. Yes, the prize had slipped away, supremacy thwarted, but concession to defeat was premature, time continued to show favor, burning desire may yet be achieved. Prudent, therefore, to err on omission’s falsehood side.

Back in his study, with Grima - _that miserable failure -_ skulking in the corner and smelling vaguely of horse, Saruman checked the list of his forces one more time. Army strong and invincible, the losses sustained by the patrols and the disastrous trip to New York a mere drop in the bucket. Those fools believed the loss of a few hundred disposable orcs would bother Isengard?

_Kill all you want, I’ll make more._

No Ring in his possession still rankled, though, and the commiserate amount of revenge for obstruction’s inconvenience would be satisfyingly exacted. Through Eomer Riddermark’s intervention, the Ring had been rerouted; through an alliance with Gandalf, the battle lines drawn; through false belief in long forgotten ideals of good, the sides had been decided. And Theoden could gather all resources and reinforcements, scramble and run about like brainless sheep in a pitiable attempt to secure the stronghold in Quarryville, it mattered not. His was the superior army, his would be the victory. Let Rohan run to Helm’s Deep, run and hide in that pathetic little hole. The White Hand would find, The White hand would fight, and The White Hand would finally crush them all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I promised not to miss a week of posting, and then my computer died and I lost everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. Then I broke my foot. How was your May?
> 
> So, as recompense for breaking my word, two chapters today, and a Thank You for all your patience. I will endeavor to not try it again.
> 
> B

 

 

Frodo belched.

“You, Mr. Baggins, are a pig.”

Swallowing air, Frodo burped out, “Am not,” followed by a fit of giggles as a dinner roll bounced off his head.

His beer empty, Sam reached for another. “Will you ever grow up?” 

“Certainly hope not. Plan on staying a child all my life.” Lashes batted out Morse Code for nubile naiveté. “An innocent child.”

“You are many things there, Frodo, but innocent ain’t one of them.”

The angel turned to devil. “And I plan on showing you later, Sam, just how far I’ve fall – Sam? Uh…Sam? _Sam_!”

“Wha -” two good swigs wasted, beer dribbling out onto the table and not into Sam’s open and staring transfixed at his Frodo engraved invitation to wanton and wild this evening. “Shit! Napkins!”

“I don’t know where -”

“Right behind you there -” a mangled laugh off to the left sprayed out cold rice. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nnnnnnothing,” Gollum enjoying his own private innuendo, “nnnnnnothing at all.”

“For you, that’s about right.” Now two messes to mop up, one fermented, the other incomprehensible. “And what the hell are you eating?”

“Ssssssushi.”

Just the thought of raw fish and seaweed turned Sam’s stomach. “Disgusting! Now, _this_ ,” attention directed to his maragriney, A-1 sloppy plate, leavenings from prime rib and baked potato, “is real food.”

A snarled yellow sneer looked from plate to waistline. “Certainly sttttticking to your rrrrrrribs.”

“You little shit, I -”

“Sam, let’s take a walk,” Frodo stepping between the fourth snipe fest this hour, “Feeling a little stuffy in here.”

“I don’t think so, out in public, how’s that low-profile?”

“Not planning on doing street theatre, Sam, just a simple walk.”

“It might rain.”

“Then we’ll get a little wet.”

“And catch a chill in the night air?”

“That’s what this is for.” Jacket dug out of the pile on the couch, a jumbled mess of the brand new, from the hotel gift shop and on the room’s tab, price tag ripped off with a jerk. “Got a hood even.”

“But, must we go,” dessert still waited on the room service table, “ _now_?”

“Yes, now. Besides, at least an hour before any dairy, right?”

Keeping Kosher or no, only Frodo could make Sam walk away from either New York style Cheesecake with blueberry compote or triple layer carrot cake with cream cheese icing. Maybe both. “Throw me my coat, then. A walk you want, a walk you’ll get. But, not too long. One of the main reasons for getting this hotel room was to get a good night’s sleep.”

Mangled laughter sprayed again. “Sssssslllleep, rrrrrright.”

Sam’s coat came flying through the air. “Mind your own business, dickhead.”

“Come on,” Frodo tugged Sam toward the door, Sam tugged on his coat, “long to feel salt breeze on my face.”

“Moving as fast as I -”

A purr into lover’s ear. “And your tongue down my throat.”

To the door, yanked open, foot tapping with impatience in a New York style second. “What’s taking you so long?”

Eager, yes, for some fresh air, to tourist this vacation spot while they could, soak up and relish in some much needed alone time, but, not so as to miss an opportunity for a slow pass by, a preview of sorts, hand brushing denim, with a little squeeze, Frodo proud Sam’s bulge now markedly bigger out in the hallway.

“Hey, is this OK?” Left in the room, Gollum drenching wasabi all over a shrimp roll. “We go out, then he’s – should we leave him alone, I mean, considering what -”

“You worry too much, Sam,” Door shut, Frodo headed to the elevator, “he’s got food to eat and porn to watch. He’ll be fine.”

“Gee, thanks for that mental image there.” Like Frodo’s cock tease never happened.

“This will be fun – Sam, you don’t need to – some exercise – not all the way – a distraction from – stop, please – haven’t been to the beach in – Sam!” Hands grabbed to cease the futzing over jacket buttons, collar and hood. “Want to spend time with Sam Gamgee, not my valet, OK?”

“Just want to make sure you stay warm.”

“Then may I suggest…”

A mirthful cough announced an audience when elevator doors opened, their kiss lasting the fourteen floor trip down.

This being October and in the middle of the week, they had most of the hotel to themselves, no waiting for an elevator, a nearly empty echoing marble overload lobby, and elbow room to wander and window shop the Boardwalk - salt water taffy and a blue crab shot glass for Sam’s dad, a Maryland map fridge magnet for Bilbo, a spare pack of Marlboro lights for Frodo, the thinish crowd of Snow Birds in their shirt sleeves, a father with three daughters deciding on which flavor of ice cream, and locals enjoying the out-of-season respite, a mingle of crisp Autumn and tunes from seaside hotel swinging out smooth jazz.

“This feels like…like,” broad grin dazzled the peace of being an anonymous one among many, “like precisely what I needed, Sam, thank you.”

“Yeah, I admit, didn’t think it was a good idea at first, but this is, you and me here,” holding hands pulled in for a quick kiss, “almost like we’re on a real date.”

“Just not our first. ‘Cause when we get back to the hotel, wouldn’t want to break any rules.”

The heat of their connection traveled up Sam’s arm, scorching out to regions north and south. “Well, you know, speaking from experience, wouldn’t be any rules if breaking them weren’t so – oooooh! Look!” Frodo stumbling after Sam’s sudden dart to the right.

“You’re going to eat that? _Really_?”

“Hell, yes!” The best item Funnelly Enough, LLC had to offer – deep fried cinnamon batter sprinkled with powdered sugar, slathered over with apples in heavy corn syrup and adorned with a whipped cream from a can mountain. Sam had achieved dessert Nirvana.

“Here, taste this,” an empty calorie laden forkful just waited for Frodo to partake of the artery clogging confection, “and tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”

By his chewing expression, Frodo’s opinion sat somewhere in the nosebleed section opposite of affirmative. “It’s, uh, definitely interesting. And sweet, excruciatingly so.”

“God, this brings back memories,” the plate sagged under the carbohydrate load, “summer, Coney Island, my brothers and me, family and friends, hell, the whole friggin’ neighborhood, swear, one Fourth of July weekend, must have eaten at least a dozen of -”

“Here, you’ve got -” A dollop on chin, Frodo’s finger wiping in off, Sam’s mouth catching it, tongue sucking everything clean. “Beginning to see the appeal, well, the whipped cream any -”

Disgust. The sound grunted obnoxious, a mother shielding her son from the dangerous homosexual agenda of funnel cake sharing.

“Don’t worry, ma’am, he’s safe,” Frodo’s smile less than conciliatory to suffer bigots gladly, “we reached our little boy recruitment quota this month already. Let’s go, Sam.”

Smacked in the ass by the mood swing slingshot again, Sam jogging to catch up Frodo’s expertly executed exit. “No theatre, but political soapbox instead?”

“Just don’t need yet another reminder, that’s all.”

“What’s that supposed to – Frodo!” Sam running after this time, half-savored funnel cake joining trash barrel company.

Ocean city, primarily a summer vacation spot, still catered to those who visited in the of months by selling hot chocolate instead of lemonade and offering complementary blankets to guest beach combers in the place of umbrellas. Low tide, the sun having set two hours earlier, and after a brief stroll, the surf dousing jean’s cuffs drippy, a dry spot, amidst the frequent tidal pools, chosen for blanket to spread and some quiet shooting the shit.

“So, I says to the guy, ‘Is that how math works in your fantasy land?’” With legs stretched out, ankles of sand encrusted boots crossed and kept scrupulously off blanket’s edge, Sam luxuriated relaxed, head in Frodo’s lap, consciously steering the conversation away from the terrible of why Ocean City – like there wouldn’t be sufficient time to dwell on that when knocking on Sauron’s front stoop - and along the straight path of the mundane, a dose of homespun boring for heavy and chosen one heart, a balm for whatever picked at Frodo’s mood tonight, just what the bookstore clerk ordered. “I mean, crimney, we’re invoiced for twenty-four copies of the latest Patterson derivative crime novel and they deliver twenty-two? What a crazy way to do -”

“You ever think about Rose?”

“Wha – damn!” That non-sequitur spilled cocoa all over the blanket. “Rosie?” Perhaps a little too homespun. “Why would you ask about her?”

Pieces of Styrofoam gouged out of the rim of Frodo’s cup drifted against his leg. “I don’t know, Just thinking, that’s all.

Sam sat up, dodging both wet spot and conversational curve ball. “And what have you been thinking about her exactly?”

“Nothing really.” A begging group of seagulls finally got the hint that no handout was forthcoming, they left huffy, cawing their displeasure. “Just wondering, I guess.”

Which would have taken two mind flips and a quick huh, for all that Frodo knew about Rose. They’d met a couple of times, sure, when she came to Bag End delivering neighborhood news, shopping for a sister’s graduation gift, by nothing beyond the bounds of mere acquaintance. “Wondering about what?”

“Well, you two we’re sort of together before, and I -”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“She was at Bilbo’s party with you.”

“OK, but that doesn’t mean sort of together. We’re friends, sure, but not -”

“What kind of friends?”

“I don’t know, what kinds of friends are there?”

“Family friends, childhood friends, professional friends, friends, you know, with…?” Wondering petered out.

“With…” The left hanging dots followed to find - “You were wondering if Rosie and me ever had sex? Is that it?”

Cup picked apart half-way down, Frodo’s gaze all the way to the sand. “Well, yes.”

“Yeah, me and Rosie did it a few times,” neither ashamed nor proud, though cautious, the truth had no reason to hide, “Why?”

“How was…was it, you know…”

“You mean generally?” The word squishy came to mind. “Or specific?”

“Did you…was she…was it – oh, fuck it!”

It was relief that laughed, saved from a detailed description of a place he sometimes regretted ever visiting, not belittling mockery or scorn for relationship insecurity. “Are you asking me how sex with Rosie compares to you in the sack?”

Pitch dark on the beach, the only light from the boardwalk behind them, but Frodo’s blush could guide in storm tossed floundering ships. “Oh, god. Didn’t sound that pathetically sleazy in my head.”

“Listen, not going to apologize, wasted energy over something I can’t undo,” scooting round the soggy place, Sam snuggled up close, taking Frodo’s hands in his, ready to smooth doubts’ wrinkles. “but, just so you know, those times with Rosie were rushed, bumbling and not all that satisfying, for either of us. The back seat of my dad’s Taurus not the best place for a fuck, if you get my meaning.”

“So, change the scenery and it would have been magic, is that it?”

Time to steam press those stubborn buggers. “What I’m saying is those times with Rosie happened because of familiarity and too much tequila.” And an unhealthy substitution for a certain unattainable law student. “Don’t get me wrong, Rosie’s a great girl, and, yes, a good friend, but believe me when I tell you, it was just sex, nothing more, and nothing like with you.”

The Styrofoam picking paused. “Oh?”

“Fishing for a compliment, are we?”

“No, _no_!” Chagrin for broaching the subject tweaked to indignant over becoming the subject. “Forget I asked. None of my business what you did with Rose, or anyone else for that matter. You had a life before, just as I did, and -”

A kiss shut him up. “Whatever you want to know, past, present or future, just ask. I love you, Frodo, all of me is yours.”

“Oh, Sam.” Foreheads together, mingling breaths fogging Frodo’s glasses. “Love you so fucking much.”

“No secrets between us?”

“Yeah, no secrets.”

“Good, then we’re good.” Another kiss to mark the topic closed. “One thing, though.” Well, maybe not so closed quite yet. “About your life before, when you said what you did, I mean, with -” now it was Sam finding the sand ever so fascinating, “it stands to reason that you, being you, that there was somebody, uhm, and -”

“Don’t worry, Sam, I’ve never even been in the _front_ seat of a Taurus.”

“Right.” Now, former partners could move on by, Sam settling back down to the comfy, satisfied Frodo understood he would be Sam’s last, and that he was Frodo’s only. “And just so you know, sex with you is…is…shit, the way you move to my touch, the feel of your skin, your mouth, goddamn, the sounds you make – no words to describe.” Fingers entwined, Sam kissed chilled knuckles one by one. “I will never stop wanting you, will never stop needing us. Even when we’re old farts, teeth in a glass, you naked, my ancient dick will be at attention.”

“Saggy skin and dentures, how romantic.”

“Just speaking the truth, Frodo.”

“So, you see us as old men together?”

“Correction: randy old men who will walker race home from the senior center and our cutthroat domino game just to jump each other’s bones.”

“But, you see us together”

“What, don’t you?”

Now, Sam’s was hair his focus, “Hard to think about the future, really. I’ve tried, you know, to visualize beyond the Ring, to after it’s destruction, but nothing comes to me,” a finger wrapped up by a honeyed curl, “it’s like once the Ring’s gone,” sliding away, hand left empty, “I will be, too.”

“Hard to think about anything else, what with the time we’ve had so far. Ringwraiths, orcs, Gandalf gone, not to mention bus station, homeless shelter, Boromir.” His lap pillow shifted at the dropped name. “And don’t get me started on that pissant Gollum, staring and leering, no wonder you can’t think -”

“That’s not it, Sam. The future still exists, I just can’t see me in it.”

“Then you’re looking in the wrong place. In mine, you’re most definitely there.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Alright, Frodo,” and Sam was up again, the past tucked away cozy, but yet to come was still awake and bouncing on the bed, “Spit it out. Never been too good at dancing and don’t want to waste any more time doing it tonight. What’s really bothering you?”

“On the ride here, in Emyn’s truck, I…had a dream.”

“OK, and…?”

“It was…confusing and…you were there.”

A little intriguing ego boost, being in his lover’s dreams. Of course, Frodo was always in Sam’s, both the night and day variety, pleasant dreams, boring dreams, even the crazy bizarre dream – dark outside, under a window, dropping eaves on Frodo’s conversation with…and then there were those _other_ dreams, sexy dreams, erotic dreams, fucking hot and heavy where Frodo, all slick with sweat, muscles taut against the leather straps, cursing the blindfold, damning the collar, begging for just a – the brisk ocean breeze couldn’t claim ownership of Sam’s teeth rattling shiver - and if Frodo’s nighttime musings were even somewhere in that same fantasy fetish territory, Sam was indeed VERY eager for the details. “OK, _and_ …?”

“You were leaving me, for Rosie.”

But, not those particular dream details. “Oh, Christ, but that’s never -”

“Or I was leaving you.”

Finally the real reason, for the walk, the questions and cryptic remarks, the gloom and doom outlook for them together future. A goddamn dream. “Come on, Frodo, you can’t seriously believe that. Just a dream, that’s all. Look at me.” Request rebuffed, Frodo cloaked in shadows. “A dream, your subconscious hurling chunks, nothing more. Means squat, and definitely not a sign for what’s going to happen with us. Hey, look at me.” Demand denied, Frodo statue still. “Me leave you? Right there, that should tell you it’s all bullshit, ‘cause that’s impossible. Never leave, not with anyone, not for anyone else. Sure as hell not with Rosie. And about you? Also, bullshit. Like I’d ever let you go anywhere without – Frodo? Are you listening to – Frodo, talk to – Frodo!”

A flash of spinning gold.

“Oh, shit.”

Swaying and rocking, he sat oblivious, lips moving with silent words, The Ring twirling and twisting in trembling fingers. And Sam knew what to do by now, the practice of eight-seven times too many, just grab his hand, smother his hand, break the connection and wait with fervent prayers that Frodo would return quick –

“What the -”

 _Whump-whump-whump -_ helicopter blades in the distance, down the beach a spotlight crabbed across the shoreline searching – folks doing the nasty, underage drinking, meth deal in progress – nothing to worry about, though, no concern necessary, he and Frodo not breaking any laws, not even bending, guys sitting, soaking up the view, shooting the breeze, had to be a routine patrol, typical for this time of night, it was only ordinary cop stuff raising neck hackles tingling to an also all too familiar warn –

“They’re here.”

Go, go now! Out in the open, by sea, under sky, exposed, unprotected, ready for the slaughter, “Shit, shit, shit, FUCK, shit!” On the move mid-heartbeat, Sam hauling ass up and Frodo’s away, shoving forward, to the Boardwalk, fear and fatigue and fumbling hiking boots sucked in by cloying sand, a flight against seconds and the unthinkable.

“They’ve come, they’re here!”

Lights beckoned, too far, Boardwalk and safety much too far, dark beach, miles and miles and miles ridiculed the effort, all alone, alone in the dark, pursued, pestilence’s prey, never make it, too slow, coming too fast, caught and cut down, sitting thumbs ducks for the slaughter, have to, run, run, must try, must succeed, for all, for him, run and run and RUN!

“I can hear them, hear them calling!”

Up under arm and strangled around waist, Sam’s exertion sweat clashed with Frodo’s clammy cold, steps bumbling, one over the other, tipping them sideways, tripping them crazy, his hand scratching at shoulder, his hand snatching at chain –

“They want it! They need it!”

“Sucks for them, then.” A slap tore open Frodo’s grasp. “Now, move your ass!”

Searchlight slithered over blanket, devouring Styrofoam bits, souvenirs buried deep beneath gnawing sand whirlwind.

“Come…on…Frodo, come…on.” Step, steps, one, two, three hundred, muscles complaining, lungs protesting, a hatred for anything beach boiling up inside of Sam to the point of – “FUCK!” Foot found a hole, afternoon’s castle moat was tonight’s bear trap, down to knees, pitching over, tumbling Frodo caught before impact, Sam lurching back up to begin again, step, steps, one and two, death and utter failure right behind. “Come on!”

“The Ring! They’ve come for the Ring!”

“Tell me something…” sand boots' enemy, outside and in, “I don’t know.”

If Only, a game of no winners, Sam a master at the game of the Second Guess – If Only he had said no to the walk, said no to stopping so long in Ocean City, no to the ATM withdrawal and its tracing electronic prints, no to obsessing over getting into his pants instead of safeguarding all of him, no fucking way to trusting Gollum, if Only he had just tried harder to keep Frodo –

“Fuck, yeah!” Boardwalk, they’d made it, soggy with sweat, gasping for breath, covered in sand and worse, rubbery legs barely able to stand holding up babbling limp rag doll, malevolent threat still seeking out there, destruction, yet they were here, on solid ground, on solid wood planks, in the light, a carnival of light, giving a chance after all, to escape, to hide, to get the hotel and disappear, the Boardwalk that opened out in all directions – sights and shouts and pizza/popcorn/pastrami stench, a small crowd of the unaware, all of it beautiful, all of it wonderful, all of it gaudy cheap Americana and not one thing familiar.

“Oh, shit.”

Where? Where was here? Don’t know, oh, fuck don’t know! How long had they walked, how far, which way? Dark, never noticed, Frodo close, didn’t care about anything else. Oh, Christ, no time, no time for this! Go left toward the Ferris wheel, head right by the giant Great White shark? Still out there, on the beach, Nazgul still tracking, hear the noise, hear them still searching. No fucking time, can’t stand here, make a choice! Left or right to the Hilton? Don’t fucking know! Then ask someone, who, any one, any of those people staring and laughing and judging and pointing and – “No, hey, what, no – Frodo!”

“They’ve come,” solitary he stood, wrenched free from Sam’s support, alone on the Boardwalk’s edge, gaze for the sea, anticipation and awe, Frodo held up the prize for the taking, “Come for THIS!”

Out in the dark, spotlight sand crawl paused…a jerk inland.

“What the hell?”

“Do you see that?”

“Looks like a -”

Staring, laughing, judging, pointing people that had no clue what was coming.

“Filming a movie, must be.”

“But, I don’t see any -”

“God, it’s coming in awfully -”

“Holy fuck!”

No need for a visual confirmation, the rushing up fast behind thunder, the screams of the panicked tourists, Frodo’s shouts of the Flaming Eye, Sam didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know the Nazgul had found The Ring.

“Oh, shit!”

A Black Hawk, arriving in sand turbulent fury, low and lightning fast, caught all by surprise, people pinned down, people fleeing, people cursing, people standing firm, Instagram fame the goal, until crushed under a falling sign that had the temerity to block rotor blades’ path. Couldn’t hear above the cacophony, couldn’t see through the sandstorm, couldn’t move against the whipped wild wind, Nazgul reached the Boardwalk amid created chaos.

And there was nowhere to go, nowhere they did not own, did not molest, did not pollute, their shrieks of victory ripping prayer from penitents, mercy and grace shredded voiceless. The spotlight sniffed, flooding Boardwalk and beyond, no privacy, no dignity, only obstacles, objects in possession’s way. It was here, near, the pull, Its call manifest, The Dark Lord’s triumph had come at last!

“Christ, it fucking reeks in here!”

Well, maybe not quite yet.

The snatch/grab, while others had waited like cattle to meet Ringwraith ignominy, instinct and life’s love preservation had moved without thought, collecting his treasure, finding a hold, regardless of size or comfort, and diving in head first, dragging protests in after .

“Nobody knows how to flush – ” public bathroom, Sam huddling Frodo in the last stall. Filthy toilet, floor cold concrete mucky, the air oppressive with human apathy, but a penthouse with a Central Park view compared to current Boardwalk real estate. “ – around here? Frodo, stop.”

“The eye! The circle of flames!”

He just hung on, a bear hug with arms and legs keeping feral tornado in place, listening not to the gibberish, murmurs, the threats, the pleas, terror and need, listened not to the crumbling separation of bearer and Ring, but instead to the labored gasps, the skipping all around beat against his chest, listened to his Frodo fail.

“The eye sees, sees all!”

“Not – unless it – needs to take - Frodo, fucking stop!” A bout of keep away, The Ring fighting like a bitch to find purchase, and Sam wrestling to deny even an almost. “Frodo, stop, stop – shit, Frodo, no!”

“The Eye!”

God, the noise was horrible, bouncing back, then around again and again within their public tomb. Black Hawk must be hovering right outside the entrance, trash cans punched over, the blow back of rotors scrambling paper towels, tabloids, snow cone wrappers, soda cans, a flip-flop, used condoms, a sucking whirlpool, refuse and refugees alike tossed and torn, the spotlight insinuating across the grimy concrete, snaking to the back, closer…closer…

There, right there, Ring by fingertip, one inch more, hand only need a mere inch to –

“The circle of flames, the eye of desolation!”

“Frodo, you can’t – Frodo, fuck! Can’t put on the -”

Hand need only move one inch more –

“The Ring! The Ring of power!”

Elbow to Sam’s jaw, Frodo trapped to the wall, glasses breaking, shoving and pushing, teeth and nails, hands a flurried jumble in between, the spotlight scuttling closer…

“Don’t do this, Frodo, don’t!”

One inch more…

“The eye!”

“Frodo! Stop!”

One whisper more –

“The Ring!”

Closer still…

The End could come, it would be over, only one more –

“NO!”

“Sauron is -”

Ringspell broken with a kiss. And the wail of loss soul-numbing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The silence, back-breaking heavy, a space vacuum cauterized sterile. No breath, no thought. Nothing.

“Frodo?”

Drip…drip…a broken pipe. A wrenched door hinge, the stuttering crash of surrender. Shouts, cries for help, of help outside, sirens of law enforcement approaching too late.

“Can you hear me? Frodo, are you -”

“What – what -?” A coughing fit, a low gurgle and true Frodo blue re-emerged with terrified hazel a nose away, flat on its back, pounding head crammed in a damp corner, stinky dumped straight into senses, and Sam splayed out on top, every arm stuck between. “What – where are – on the beach, we were – why the hell are -” the answer obvious, however, it lay cradled in his palm. “Did I – oh, god – did I -”

“Hey, hey, it’s OK.” Understanding gathered in the guilty, strong arms and loyal heart rocking away the pain. “It’s all over now.”

“I – I -” anguish buried deep into undeserved consolation, “I almost -”

“You didn’t, Frodo, and that’s all that matters.” Tears clung together desperate, for support, with forgiveness. “You didn’t.”

This time hung waiting in the fetid air.


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

“Damn.”

“At least we found it.”

“Fuck all good it does now.”

Glasses, sans one temple piece, sat crooked on nose.

“A little tape, fix things just fine.”

“Not enough fixing fine tape in the universe to do that.”

“Frodo?”

He pulled away. “I’m fine, Sam, really” Didn’t get very far, though, only to the far wall, lover’s embrace exchanged for the silver steel of the elevator.

“Sure you are, Frodo,” an example of Sam’s best humoring, “but, I know I’m still freaked out about what happened, what could have happened. Told you the ATM was a bad idea.”

“Remind me to jot that down in the book: Sam - one hundred and forty-seven, Frodo – zip.”

“Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that!”

“I know.” The smile thin, wan, but warm. “But, where else were we going to go?”

“I get it.” Doors dinged open, Sam collecting Frodo, the mild protest ignored, tucking him back under arm like the whole way back across the Boardwalk, through news crews and police hoards, emergency vehicles and train wreck junkies, no one bothering to interview, question or associate with the two disheveled, grubby, piss malodorous men that emerged quite a while after the excitement was over, arm in arm, from a public bathroom. “But, that was too fucking close, made it too easy to find you. And that’s why we’re leaving right now, tonight, just pack up and – what the hell!”

Dead stop, middle of the hallway, Frodo stood firm, Sam’s moving ahead quick momentum bumbling to join him. “No.”

“No, what?”

“Not leaving tonight. We’re staying.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Tonight, a fluke. If we hadn’t been out there, they never would have gotten that close.”

Shoulders grabbed to shake down some sense. “They know you’re here, Frodo, know The Ring is in Ocean City. I won’t wait around for those fuckers to break down the door. We’ve got to go!”

“Sam,” chilled-to-the bone hands to either side on lover’s face, contain the anxiety, focus the panic, “the Nazgul are out there on the beach, on the boardwalk. Which do you think the safer place? In the dark hollows of an unfamiliar city, or here, in the hotel, cloaked by anonymous walls?”

“The safest place if you far away from here.”

“If the Eye knew where we were exactly, this evening’s entertainment never would have happened. We’d be dead already.”

“I can’t let -”

“One more night, Sam,” voice lowered, vulnerable, naked, “please, Sam, one night of normal, that’s all I’m asking for here.”

Should shut this foolishness down right now, tell him no, go back to the room, pack and get the hell out of Dodge, no more If Onlys today. Yet, to feel ordinary, the same as everybody else, not chosen, not carrying the fate of the world by blistered, bleeding fingertips? Christ, that wish nearly rubbed to tatters by now. “One night, that’s all. Tomorrow, we’re out of here.”

“Thank you.” A kiss for Sam’s compliance.

“You’re welcome.” An answering one to Frodo’s – “Damn, you’re freezing!” And kind of shivering, and soggy in places, smeared in others, Frodo not wearing his brush with evil very well. “Get you inside, into a hot bath, then bed,” key card pulled from coat pocket, “and eight hours of sleep minimum.”

“I said our normal, not my nana’s normal.”

“Do we have a normal that doesn’t include bus stations and gays bars and hitch hiking and -”

“We have Rivendell normal,” Frodo found Sam’s back pockets to his hands’ liking, “we have the Institute normal.”

“Yeah, isn’t that where this whole meshegas started?”

“Come on, Sam,” the cheek brush, stubble buzzing on the way up to ear, “big bed, time to spare, jumbo tube of -”

“Frodo…” Adult reasoning and common sense taking a serious hit when tongue traced shell.

“You, me, top, bottom, any position, every position, all those pillows, the chairs, not to mention Galadriel’s -”

**_AAAAAAAFFFFFFFFFPPPPPPPPTTTTT!_ **

Frodo wiped sneeze spit off Sam’s hair.

“Now, _that_ was sexy.” Askew glasses set right.

“Sorry.”

“Like I said,” card slipped into lock, “for you nothing but sleep to -”

“Mmmmmaster?”

Frodo blinked into black. “Don’t call me that! I am not your master!”

Two blood shot eyes sat forward into window slice of cruel neon. “Thththththtey cccccame! Thththtey ccccame ffffor thththe tttttreasure!”

“Yes, they did, but, through Sam’s quick thinking, nothing -”

“Sssssam.” The name lousy with unveiled contempt. “Bbbbbut the ttttreasure?”

Table light clicked on, Frodo’s dark room fumbling finally shedding situation light. “I still have the Ring.”

"Mmmmmaster!” Emaciated body launched, slimy stuttering latching on to legs. “Ththththte tttttttreasure!”

“Here now, you get off him!” Sam grabbed T-shirt, collar ripping free. “Let go, you freak!” A kick to Gollum’s bony butt, puling thing punted back against the wall. “Keep your hands off! Don’t touch him again!”

Milky eyes narrowed to slits, venom from the far corner. “Nnnno, ssssupossse that’ssss your jjjob, Sssssamwissse.”

Well, that pulled him up short. “How do you know that name?”

Gollum’s sneer devoured Sam’s discomfort. “Whwhwhwhat, Sssssamwisssse? Bbbbut, isn’t thththtat your nnnnname, _Sssssamwisssse_?”

Fury and fists advanced. “Don’t you call me that!”

“Leave him be, Sam.” The temple rub, a tell-tale sign of a headache. “Shit, must you two always fight?”

Big, fluffy couch cushion lobbed in irritant’s direction, Sam’ s ceasefire proposal.“Don’t you call me that ever again!”

Double middle fingers, Gollum’s terms acceptance. “Whwhwhwhat ever you sssssay, Ssssssammm.” From the bedroom doorway -“You said something about a warm bath, Sam?”

Wary to turn attention away, Sam kept one eye on Gollum, the other on Frodo’s care, hand to warm shivering away. “You go on in, I’ll be there -”

**_AAAAAAFFFFFFFFPPPPPPTTTTTT!_ **

Frodo wiped sneeze spit off Sam’s arm.

“Sorry.”

“Now, I’m really turned on.” Hanging from the extant temple piece, glasses returned to nose.

“Goodnight, Smeagol. Don’t stay up too late, check out is eleven. Then, whoo-hoo, on to Mordor.”

Frodo disappeared, and seconds old truce immediately broken. “Don’t care what you do out here. You can watch On Demand, eat all the food, crochet a nice ski cap for your mother out of used napkins, don’t give a rat’s ass what. But -” handful of sushi-stained shirt, Sam slammed Gollum to the wall, knuckles in larynx pinning flat, “if you even think about disturbing Frodo tonight, you won’t be able to chew, see or even rub those two sticks up there together for a thought. Do I make myself clear?”

Gollum nodded once, the perfect supplicant. “Good.” Dropped him like chute trash, Sam wiped brutal hand on butt, followed Frodo, barrier slammed shut and locked tight.

A slink across the room, ear to door. “Whatever you say, Samwise.”

 

 

********

 

 

The trembling ball on the bed, Frodo to the core shivering a secondary concern, Sam heading straight to the bathroom to start filling the biggest damn whirlpool/Jacuzzi jet/Catholic family sized bathtub he had ever seen with warmest water, the first concern guaranteed to cure the other’s trouble. Some hotel smell nice added for that extra push toward total relaxation, and Sam returned for his patient, still unmoved from the fetal position, Frodo adrift in the California king. The whole suit furnished that way, oversized chairs in the sitting room, monstrous headboard lorded over obscenely large bed smothered with ginormous pillows and a spread that pooled diving end deep onto the lose whatever you drop rich carpet. More maxi then mini-bar, surround sound for the 70 inch plasma, French doors opened out onto the balcony, the Atlantic your morning wake-up call, the lights below reflecting in the mirrors floor to ceiling on the opposite wall. _He spent too much on this room. Would have been just as content down at the Motel Six with their nineteen inch and chintzy towels._ Frodo had insisted however, and since it was indeed his money, it could be burned through anyway he wanted. Tonight, though, was Sam’s insistence and those Egyptian cotton sheets would housekeeping gossip only of a good night’s sleep.

“Started the bath, should be ready soon.”

“I’ll be right there.”

No movement from the bed, not even a blink. “Yeah, right.” Sam knelt to speed things along, legs into position, starting with dirty boots.

“Can do that myself.”

“I know.” Laces sang through the holes.

“So, you can stop now.”

“OK.” One boot jiggled from foot, a dune poured out onto thick burgundy.

“Stop any time, Sam.”

“I heard you.” Other boot off, a private island birthed at the end of the bed.

“Sam, I said -” the sit had less up and more wobble swerve tilting back down until caught and reeled in, Sam right there where needed again. Frodo’s sigh miffed at his weakness, nevertheless grateful for the assistance. “Thanks.”

The socks came off, pruney pale toes wiggling free. “What for?”

“Oh, for undressing me, drawing the bath, carrying my sorry ass here, for stopping me from fucking up so royally, bringing death and destruction to millions of -”

“Enough!” Up on knees, Sam captured Frodo’s self-immolating firm. “Don’t beat yourself up over something that did NOT happen, don’t blame yourself for -”

“Couldn’t help it Sam, the voice was so strong. ‘Put it on, Frodo Baggins, take it, just claim it.’ So fucking strong.”

“But, you’re stronger, remember that, you are here, right now because you’re the stronger, the strongest of us all.”

“Only because of you, Sam.”

A forehead kiss, a thumb brush for tears. “Well, that’s my job, keeping you out of trouble. Can you get that?”

“Sure.” Jacket shrugged off. “Got to say, an otherwise great date night ruined only by -”

“Frodo, please, just let it -”

“Funnel cake. A gastrointestinal nightmare.”

“What, that was the highlight,” socks stuffed into boots and set aside out of the traffic pattern, “fired to crispy perfection, the topping of -”

“Homophobia?”

“Yeah, that was nauseating.”

“Wouldn’t face that if you were with Rose.”

_Rehashing all the great moments of last night._ “Never gonna happen. I want you, and she’s holding out for a doctor, a _straight_ doctor,” back up to start on shirt removal, “preferably with a specialty practice on the Upper East -”

“NO!” The jerk away violent, terrifying, the hand protecting chest absolute. “Do it myself.”

“OK, Frodo,” Sam backed away slowly, non-threatening, non-confrontational, out of whiplash mood range, “whatever you say. How about standing, I’ll get your jeans.”

Wobbly, steadied by Sam’s hand to hips, he looked down over opening shirt buttons. “You kneeling in front of like this.” A snotty sniff. “I very much approve.”

“And any other time,” jeans tugged down, top of head balancer as one leg after the other stepped out, “I would take full advantage, believe me.” Sam’s valiant attempt to find the carpet, a wall socket, anything infinitely more fascinating then eye level view, “but, you must -” boxers fell off. “Oh, Christ.”

_Drop the nursemaid shtick, Gamgee, take him, throw him on the bed and warm him up from the in -_

**_AAAAAAAFFFFFFFPPPPPPPTTTTT!_ **

Frodo wiped flying sneeze spit from Sam’s face. Just the slap required.

“Sorry.”

Blown completely off, glasses retrieved from the floor. “Go on, Frodo, into the tub.”

“Sam – one hundred and forty-eight.” Shirt slipped down, naked Frodo weavely walked into the bathroom.

_Warm bath for him, icy cold shower for – oh, god, his ass! His perfect ass, and the ski slope right up to ribs that I can actually count now, shoulder blades sticking out like skinny chicken wings –_ damning testimony to the physical toll the Quest was exacting – _he’s wasting away to nothing!_

All thoughts of taking, warming and Frodo’s insides stored for a masturbatory later.

“Oh, Sam?” Sing-songy treacle from the other room. “Could you come in here a moment?”

“Sure, sure, just a sec.” Discarded clothing arranged neatly for no other reason than tidy order was a good thing, Sam entered the bath, determined his resolve to see Frodo clean, relaxed and into bed for a slumberland destination as soon as possible, libido ready for the challenge of back scrubbing, hair washing, the towel dry and clinging to the far reaches of the mattress all night long, never crossing crisp sheet No Man’s Land, not even for a snuggle. _I can do this, I must do –_

Resolve, determined or not, never had a snowball’s chance.

“What the – how did -”

Ordinary smell nice churned up by whirlpool jets, Frodo caressed by mounds of frothy bubbles.

“Sam, if you don’t get naked right now,” an invitation, a demand, “I will be forced to pull you in fully clothed, because, with or without your cooperation, I fucking swear, I will have you tonight.”

Boots couldn’t come off fast enough. “No idea it was bubble bath. I never would have -”

“Think it’s a great idea,” a large bubbly handful scooped up, blown with kisses across the room, “kinda’ kinky.”

New sweatshirt and horny clumsy not compatible, arm stuck in recalcitrant sleeve. “Damn!”

Pulling up, water glistening off skin, bubbles strategically placed to his the most delectable parts. “Could always come out and help you.”

“No!” The seam complained as he yanked the sweatshirt off over his head. _He does, and it’s all over in a split second._ “Stay there. I’m almost done.”

“As you wish, Sam.” Frodo drew a hand across his body, sweeping away the bubbles, revealing…“But, you better hurry. Don’t want the, uh, water to get cold.”

Learning the lesson of trying too hard with shirt, Sam sat down on the toilet to remove his pants. He watched with growing passion – _as if more were even possible –_ as Frodo sat on one of the tub steps, a lean back, legs open to the precise spot of his desire. The only thing marring that most exquisite of pictures, The Ring against the pale of Frodo’s chest.

“Wait,” glasses slipped on, “stand up,” instructions to a now Full Monty Sam, “and turn. Want to see your ass, never get to see your ass.”

Ten times a fool, just standing there, bare all the way around. “Well, is it alright?”

“Alright? I’d give your ass no less than a thirteen.” A sloppy sponge hit left cheek. “Looks even better wet.”

A growling, hungry stalk to the tub. “Then let me give you a closer look.”

“Bout damn time.”

Slipping into the water, “Oh, fuck,” the sheer sensual pleasure of the swirling jets as the churned beneath the surface, “but this is good!” He sunk back, mirroring Frodo’s other step position muscles easing out the tension he had refused to admit he carried.

“All warm and tingly, Sam?”

The bubbles telegraphed the trajectory of Frodo’s foot, Sam trapping it tight to his erection. “Why, yes, I am. And you?”

Eyes closed, head leaned back, hmmmmmmmed hedonism. “Got to get one of these for - fuck!” He surfaced sputtering out water, pulled under by Sam’s foot tug. “Dickhead, my glasses,” sunk to the bottom.

“For the sponge.”

Head toss sent a spray against the back wall. “Think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

“Only when it comes to you.”

A twin eyebrow raise for the audacity. “Oh, yeah?” Right under and right for Sam’s cock.

“Jesus, Frodo! You, don’t, that, Fro -” Protests to gurgles as, still holding on tightly, Frodo scooted backward, drawing Sam’s head under, too. Both broke the surface laughing. “You liked to pulled it off!”

“Not a bad idea, actually.”

“ _What_?”

“Can carry it my pocket for anytime funsies.”

“Rather keep it attached to my body, thank you very much,” family jewels in safety deposit box of crossed legs, “but, you can still play with it whenever.”

“What about now, Sam?” Eyes their darkest hue.

Smile its most lascivious. “Thought you’d never ask.”

A huge wave splashed out on the floor, Mediterranean tile awash with bubbles, Frodo diving into Sam’s lap. Mouths met in heated, forceful kisses, shoving into each and every crevice, Frodo’s hands through Sam’s hair, Sam positioning Frodo’s hips into place. And when their cocks met –

“Oh, god, Sam, yes!”

_KABOOM!_

Exposed throat Sam took as his, attacking, a line branded by tongue. Hands securely anchored on butt, he pulled the thin body, pressing it into his. “Frodo, I love you – goddamn! You’re mine!”

Stillness, hands tight on Sam’s shoulders. “Say that again.”

A glance up from ear lobe nibbling. “Huh?”

“Say that again. Talk to me. Just talk.”

“What, what do you want me to say?”

“Anything, just anything. Need to hear your voice, not His.”

“His? _His_?” Frodo shoved away. “Oh, fuck no, not this way!”

“Don’t want to hear Him, don’t want to listen.” Frodo covered Sam’s mouth with frantic kisses, hands snagged through chest, drawing nipples erect. “It’s OK, just talk to me, need you so much, just talk.”

“Frodo, I –”

“Sam, please!” Urgent need thrust hard. “Let me hear _your_ voice instead.”

Just like the homeless shelter, uncomfortable creepy dirty talk, that’s what he was asking for. Doing it, sex, a fuck, making love to Frodo, stroking and kissing and plying to climax, yes, but, a play-by-play? “No, can’t do this, can’t.”

“The voice is so loud, in my head,” teeth marked red on tanned skin, “get it? Understand? So, fucking loud _in my head_!”

The Ring. Right there before his eyes, It hung, mocking his love for the Bearer. The Ring that tormented Frodo’s present, sought to steal their future.

“Talk to me, Sam, Don’t want to hear, listen, don’t want hear Him!”

The Ring. Right before his eyes, corruption, perversion, seeking to taint the pure, their connection, their love.

“Sam, PLEASE!”

_The Ring._ He closed his eyes. _OK, motherfucker, now you’re dealing with me._

“You know that spare room in the apartment? The one in the back, overlooking the street? You know which one I’m talking about?”

“Yes, Sam,” head wilted to shoulder, “I know.”

“Well, when we get back, I’m gonna’ fix it up, gut the whole thing, start from scratch, fix it up as sort of a library, a study, so you have a quiet place for schoolwork.” Up and down stroking on Frodo’s cock, feeling those slender hips push into his grasp with each pass. “Make book shelves and a desk, maybe even a couch for breaks, when I bring you tea.”

“If we – get back.”

“ _When_ , Frodo, **_when_**.” Meaning emphasized by a tightening fist, the groan vibrating his skin. “After the, after the study, then I’ll go to work on the wall between our rooms - shift to the left, Frodo - not sleeping without you ever again - that’s right, love, push into me, push – I’ll knock that wall down, making one big room, big enough for a four poster so fucking tall, build that step stool, too – Come for me, Frodo, come all over me.” He was within, Frodo within Sam always. A shadow, however, gripped him now, that Frodo of his soul, calling him away, obscuring, erasing. _Frodo, stay here!_

Arms braced on back wall, Frodo rode pleasure hard. “With a thick rug on the – oh, Sam, so good, god, so good!”

“Don’t know about a fireplace in there, have to check on the, but, the room would be ours, Frodo, yours and mine – that’s right, baby, push into me – and every morning we’ll wake side by side, every night holding, touching and kissing.” Whispers, harsh, harried, eyes squeezed shut, one hand pumping, the other massaging back, always fighting the shadow.

“Sam, I, oh, want that, you every – shit!”

“Don’t hold back now, Frodo, come for me.” In mind’s eye his lover’s body moved like the water that caressed them, undulating, while the darkness vulture hung waiting to possess. _Stay with me!_

“I can still hear It, Sam, hear Him, still hear Him!”

Eyes burned, bright spots imploding behind lids, brilliant light fighting the darkness. “Every night, we’ll watch TV, eating the fabulous dinner I cooked, sprawled out on the sofa, our legs all mixed up and you’ll tell me about your day and I’ll give you the boring details of mine – don’t hold back, Frodo.”

“Need you, S-S-Sam,” stuttered grunts, “need to f-f-f-feel you.”

_I need_ – to see his mouth, open, tongue licking lips, hips pushing up into hand – _want to watch it all, goddamnit!_ But, It would be there. Eyes squeezed tighter still. “Then after TV and rinsing for the dishwasher, we’ll go the bed,” legs shifted further apart, Frodo settled in lap more securely, “I’ll watch you throw your clothes on the floor and won’t even bother to pick them up, ‘cause all I can think about is climbing into bed with you.” Cheeks spread, a finger slipped in.

“Easy, Sam, go,” body caught in lover’s tempo, “oh, _oh_ , god, good!”

“And you snuggle into my arms, head on my chest,” second finger in, “your leg thrown across mine – come on, baby, let, let go it go.” _Stay, don’t go to the shadow!_

“Louder, Sam, louder!” Head drew up as body shoved closer. “LOUDER!”

“And we’ll talk about the next day,” bathroom walls echoing with the battle, “and the next, and the next – let go, Frodo, come on, baby, Frodo love, come for me –” pumping, panting, eyes begging to open, Frodo in the balance, “and the next year, the next decade.”

“Want that, want that – so – so - fucking – Sam!”

“We’ll talk about it all, ‘cause we’ll always be together – Frodo, come on, come!” Unable to hold them in any longer, tears fell from the corners, The Ring, the voice, the shadow, he fought them all, fought for them all, their physical joining, their very essence, for Frodo’s soul, a fight he could not loose.

“Sam! Sam! _Sam_!” A frenzy of bouncing thrusts.

“Frodo, love, come – always together, nothing’s gonna’ keep us apart – Frodo!” Lover’s body jerked under his touch,“Frodo! I love you, always,” _stay, Frodo, stay with me –_ “I love you, never forget,” _Please don’t leave me!_ – “love you always!”

“Sam! oh, god, Sam! I love you!” Arched and stretched back tight, a low, throaty moan worked up from the deep, rising in pitch and volume until explosion, screams, wild thrusting. “SAM!”

A warmth spread across palm, and Sam just held on, orgasm shivering out, Frodo clinging spent. Eyes opened and immediately filled with new tears – Not the Ring, not the shadow. Just Frodo. “Oh, god!”

“You did it. It’s gone. The voice, silent. You did it.”

And Sam continued to cry.

 

*******

 

_“Fucking leave it. Come to bed now, Sam.”_

_"I know I’d be fucking pissed if somebody left me a bathtub’s worth of water all over the floor."_

“Listen to him, moron, listen to pretty boy, cccccccome ttttto beddd, Sssssssammmmwissssse.”

_“You should be tired.”_

_“I was until I saw what sad shape you’re in. Just look at you.”_

_“Seen it before, nothing special, really._

“You ccccan say ththththat again.”

_“You let me be the judge. Come to bed and I'll take care of my Sam.”_

_“Your Sam would feel better if his Frodo would just go to sleep.”_

_“Can’t. See?”_

_“That quick? Jesus, Frodo!”_

_“Come to bed, Sam. I need you.”_

“ ‘I need you, Sam’, fuck! Do they always talk like that? Yyyyyess, sssssickening mmmmmost of the ttttttime.”

_“Do that again – no, not that, yes, that! God, I could just stand here all night and look at you like that! Fucking incredible!_

_“You’d either explode or fall over from fatigue.”_

_“Willing to risk it.”_

_“Don’t force me to use my dick snatching shtick again. Come to bed now.”_

_“So it’s shtick now, huh? You carrying around a Yiddish -”_

_“Lube, Sam!”_

_“Right.”_

“Why can’t they just use spit? Ffffffucking pansiessssss.”

_“You smell like...”_

_“Never get tired of tasting my – strawberries?”_

“These are the guys chosen to carry the Treasure? Hhhhhard to bbbbbelieve, I knknknow. Should be a breeze to get it back, then, gggget it bbbback.”

_“Here, let me do that, Sam.”_

_“Oh, no, you touch me and these bazillion thread count sheets will need extra bleach. You just lie back and tempt me.”_

_“Like this? Does this strike you as tempting?”_

_“Even picking your nose would be -”_

_“Really? OK, if that’s what you -”_

_“Even I know what hyperbole is.”_

“Talk, talk, talk! All they do is talk! Yyyyyou should ttttttry traveling with ththththem.”

_“Do something for me, Frodo?”_

_“Name it.”_

_“Well, for starters, hold this, yeah, right there. Good, give me more room.”_

_“Ooooh!”_

_“Too fast? I’m sorry.”_

“Ram it in, you fucking faggot! Drive it right up to his eyeballs!”

_“Hmmmm, no, no that’s perfect, right there, SHIT! Feels so fucking – what else?”_

_“Uh, what – what?”_

“Shshshshut the ffffuck up! You said it, buddy!”

_“What else, ssssssss, what else do you want me to do?”_

_“Just move It away, so I can’t see – Christ! Squeeze like that a – GOD! Don’t want to look at It while we – damn! - that’s all.”_

“Only fucking fruits make love. Men fuck! Mmmmmen ffffuck!”

_“More, Sam, give me more, that’s good, no - that’s fucking GREAT! Uh –uh-uh-uh – that better?”_

_“Perfect. One more thing.”_

_“Demanding this evening, and – God – so very talented, Sammmmmmm.”_

_“Is He there? What do you hear?”_

_“Only you singing in my heart.”_

“Please stop this before I hurl! More than a pleasure sending them to Her. Tttttto Hhhher!”

_“Now it’s only us making love, you and -”_

_“Fuck me, Sam.”_

“Finally! None of that love crap, lllllove ccccrap, good honest fucking, ffffffucking.”

_“Grab your knees Frodo.”_

_“Sam, oh, Sam!”_

_“Your knees, not my ass, knees – oh, the hell with it.”_

_“Goddamnit!”_

“Yes, that’s good, gggggood, give it to, hhhhhim, harder, fffffaster!”

_“F –Fr-Fro-FRODO!”_

_“S A M!”_

“Frodo, ooooh, Frodo! Ssssssssamwwwwwwissssssse!”

_“Nothing’s – shitshitshit – is better than this!”_

“The Treasure is better, you fucking idiot, mmmmmmuch bbbbbbetter!”

_“This – this – eve – ry – eve – ry – day – for – the – rest – of – our - lives.”_

“Which won’t be too much longer if I have anything to say about it. Now, shut up and fuck!”

_“Well, if you insist.”_

_“Right there, there, damn, I’m…I’m…you know what I’m…”_

_“Driving me – FUCK! – crazy!”_

“How sssssssweet.”

_“Sam, Sam, oooooh shit, shit, harder!”_

_“Like this?”_

“Yes, like that!”

_“Sam – Sam – come – come – coming – Sam!”_

_“Not before me – oh, god, FRODO!”_

“Yes, yes, drill him, ddddrill him, ffffffuck!”

_“That’s it, Sam, that’s it, now, now, NOW, NOW NOOOOOOOOOW!”_

_“Oh, oh, fuck, so tight, Frodo, so tight, tight, you, love – NOW!”_

“Yes, fffffuck, yes, ffffffuck!”

_“I love you, Sam.”_

_“I love you, Frodo. Now will you go to – Frodo? Frodo? Good night, my love.”_

Gollum just wiped his hand on the carpet.


	10. Chapter 10

 

_Not now, Pip, I’m tired._

_Going off with Treebeard, no time._

_We’ll talk later, I promise._

Only later had yet to arrive and Pippin was alone.

_Again._

Nana Banks had always said an idle mind only lacked good conversation, but idle hands better not expect a place at the supper table. So, to help out their most gracious host – and fill in the empty – Pippin had cleaned. The bathroom until it sparkled, the kitchen to dazzling bright, even scrubbed the floor to the perfect mirror sheen, a full yesterday of domestic drudge. And today after the breakfast dishes – the dusting, the vacuuming, water the house plants, sweep the deck, change out sheets and towels, chase away the cobwebs all the way in the tippy-top corners with the aid of dining table, a chair, the broom handle and cloth, all this activity invigorating – mending the elbow hole in flannel slotted for after lunch – with the birds singing, the squirrels frolicking, the happy little tune he whistled while he work –

“Fuck, I’ve become a Disney princess.”

Time to change to a PG-13 rating.

Had found it earlier while not snooping – no, the real snooping had only garnered books on cross-pollination, a stack of catalogues for homeopathic remedies and some vague love letters his sworn to uphold Southern Gentleman Code of Honor had forbidden him to read…well, not thoroughly anyway – but, discovered while reaching for a bucket. Tucked away in the back of the lowest kitchen cabinet, a large, clear, unmarked jug. The Tennessee boy knew what he had found.

Of course, Nana Banks always said drinking alone never was not with a fool to buy the next round.

“What time is -”

The cuckoo clock over by the front door gave the still afternoon bad news. “At least four hours?”

Gospel measure mug of the smoothest moonshine this side of the Mississippi and Pippin Fool of a Took sat down to wait for Merry.

“Again.”

Out traipsing around the woods with Treebeard, checking on saplings, water erosion, the hundreds of other terribly vital jobs necessary to keep a forest healthy. He didn’t begrudge this new hobby, though somewhat inexplicable for the to the core NYC urbanized Merry, presumably latching onto caretaking living things as a counter balance to certain death that always hovered close.

But, every day, for hours and hours, come back to the treehouse only to make it the topic at dinner, then study and research it until eyes go bleary, and fall into bed too exhausted for even a good night kiss? And where Treebeard went, there was Merry in his long cast shadow, inseparable, joined at the hip – well, more like two inches above Merry’s head and Treebeard’s hip – but, look for one, and the other was always found, breakfast, lunch, supper and late night ginger snaps snack. If Treebread was awake, Merry was, too, singularly rapt and oblivious to all else, including Pippin on the sidelines, nose smooshed to the glass, watching his joy slip away. Couldn’t help wondering, moonshine as well, when does an innocent hobby turn to obsession, and just how straight the path traveled between obsession and avoidance.

_Is he running to, or away?_

Merry had even ceased to talk to Pippin, well, certainly nothing substantive. No, his conversation starters were more like, ‘See ya’ dark thirty.’ Or ‘Oh, I forgot, got to go do (insert here anything that Pippin was not engaged in at that moment). Their most meaningful conversation of the last several days centered around a red boiled potato – “Really like what you did with the rosemary, there.” – which Pippin had straw grasped as a subliminal invitation to finally begin a dialogue – everybody knows the spice symbolizes remembrance, friendship and love – but, even before he could open his encyclopedia of concerns Merry’s interest had moved on by to elicit Treebeard’s opinion on syrup tapping and did the Maple’s give willingly. Those uneaten potatoes somehow found their way into a certain someone’s boots. Not since the shower, then Merry so understanding and tender, had they -

_The shower? Is that why he won’t talk to me? Because I pushed him away, or because of the why?_

No regrets at all – save Merry from harm? Hell, yes! Do it again in a heartbeat – even though the humiliation of the rest stop would never truly heal; he would just become better at hiding it, from others, from himself. Yet, if the Uruk-hai had stolen not only his peace of mind, but Merry’s respect as well?

_And the point of getting out of bed would be…?_

Now, bed was the one place Merry did stop running and hiding, just dropped in knackered, unconscious before head and pillow could reacquaint. Previously a starfish sleeper - Pippin long grown accustomed to finding a small patch of mattress to cling to - Merry had switched his sleepy time habits to barnacle, attached to and refused to relinquish his host all night, oversized sweat plastered shirts in between, a curled around protective shield. Which Pippin had rather enjoyed, it being the one time he held Merry’s undivided, albeit dead to the world, attention. Did make getting up to take a piss dicey, though, the scraping free taking up so much bellowing bladder time, the race to the bathroom a possible near miss.

_Good thing Treebeard keeps the seat up._

Merry did touch Pippin then, although neither in intimacy or passion, so he obviously wasn’t repulsed by physical contact. A mood lifting deduction, to be sure. Yet he still preferred the waking company of branch and bark Treebeard over the man he had vowed to spend the rest of his life loving.

_Because maybe his vow had included a hidden ‘but for’ clause?_

Needed another mug full to face this one.

Naïve and imbecilic not to realize there could be someone else, a past, Humans’ common denominator. And who wouldn’t want Merry, a wickedly wild warm and witty man, sex on a stick with a hefty trust fund. Not that money motivated Pippin’s devoted adoration. As Nana banks always said all them zeros was nice, but could they tell a good joke?

_And if that who has received parents’ seal of approval?_

Of course, they no doubt held expectations for their only son, take over the business, maybe, carry on tradition, probably, continue the family name, most definitely. With what Merry had said about his mom and dad’s attitude toward Pippin, the no grandchildren bombshell was most assuredly as tearful in Pennsylvania as it had been in Scottsborough. Not that his family didn’t accept his relationship with Merry, mom and sister already excitedly planning their first same-sex wedding even without a formal proposal, just that the next generation of Took’s would be less than perfect if there were no little Pippin’s making mischief. At least once a week, a link to a new adoption agency hit his inbox.

_But, what if? What if Merry couldn’t turn his back, couldn’t walk away from family and obligations? What if Merry DID marry Estella?_

Unthinkable, yet he couldn’t help but do so now, to see his life 10, 15, 20 years down the road. For sure, there was the entire catalogue of “life fulfilling requirements”: good job, a wife/husband, the progeny, the Retriever, thirty-year mortgage millstone, outdoor BBQ on the deck and SUV in the garage, trips to Disney World on summer vacation, and every Thanksgiving a Tennessee celebration. Sunday mornings would be spent in bed with the paper, reading glasses perched on the tip of nose, coffee cooling on the nightstand as he checked the classifieds for a solid used car and his harried partner refereed the kid’s daily Xbox argument down the hall. He possessed all the Madison Avenue hawked requirements, only no spark, no jolt, no _fun_ for there was no Merry in that little picture of suburban ordinary. Merry was absent because he had listened to his parents, turned aside, walked away, gave up and married Estella, and now sat somewhere on the family compound checking their investment portfolio on his tablet, drinking a cappuccino in the solarium while his still slender, socialite wife made arrangements for their upcoming vacation in Bora-Bora and the kid played Beethoven on the cello practicing for his next concert at Carnegie Hall.

It took a flurry of large gulps to shove that nightmare to the back of the line.

_Stop borrowing tomorrow’s trouble when today’s is bad enough._

Any future, on either side of bisexuality, balanced on knife’s point anyway, despite all the valiant and heroic attempts to stop him, their world spinning benign and free could vanish at the snap of Sauron’s fingers.

_Not that he could, a giant eye doesn’t have fingers. Eyelashes then, everything could be destroyed by the Dark Lord’s eyelashes, though lashes don’t actually snap, and would a burning eyeball even have them? Not without an eyelid, except the bottom ones, but just one lid worth of lashes couldn’t snap no matter how evilly omnipotent. What the hell am I – he can do whatever the fuck he wants, with or without lashes, Sauron can no doubt make any sound with any ocular part he –_

“It’s official, alone too long, now I’m babbling nonsense to myself.”

Unproductive by half, all these mental gymnastics. Should get back to work, there was still the windows to wash and the rugs to beat clean, not to mention deciding on dinner’s menu, so much busy to keep him occupied, there was no reason to waste time on under cooked suppositions, or dragging behind illogical conclusions, flights of fantasy sucking in paranoid partners and ducking down new dark thought allies, until a flash mob burst out ugly and incoherent.

_But, if a fool rants in the woods, does anyone hear him?_

A sounding board, that’s what he needed, to give thoughts a voice, spread them to the universe, to clear away doubt’s debris, just talking would kick the crazy out, bring back the sun, wipe mind’s slate clean making space for the next batch of incoming scribbles. But, most especially, Pippin needed _his_ board.

_But, Merry’s not talking **or** listening to me._

Not for lack of trying on Pippin’s part, that’s for damn sure, each weight dragging him down – including, but not limited to: rest stop, county road, parental units, possible fiancé, Frodo and Sam, the rest of the Fellowship’s whereabouts, the upcoming Entmoot, Saruman’s revenge, were they over staying their welcome and just what had he missed on “Game of Thrones” since leaving – _oh, there’s always the books, but who has time to read when being chased by –_

“Shut up, Pippin.” Babbling wings’ sprout cut short in the nick of time.

He had tried, but there was only so much energy to give on subtle/not-so subject changes, unanswered questions and the total ignore before even his head grew weary of continued brick wall meetings.

And they could not continue as locked doors, emotions unexamined and festering. Once started down that slippery slope of non-communication – Estella out of this doomsday equation - their lives would become hollow conversations, solitary dinners together, terse phone calls, rushed and unsatisfying sex, anticipated goodbyes and falling out of touch.

Pippin HAD to talk to him, get him to listen and understand. If, not, then the world everyone was fighting to save – Pippin’s corner of if it anyway – wouldn’t be.

_A life without Merry? No life at all._

“You go ahead without me, just gonna' check on Pip!” Speak-of-the-devil’s voice lilted through the front door.

No sound of Treebeard clomps, only Merry’s hurried steps up the long wooden staircase. And he was back early, a whole two hours. Pippin wanted to put on a party hat and throw confetti ‘cause here was a gift worth keeping – time and space for only two. Here, _now,_ his chance, maybe the last, he had to grab it with both hands and not let go. He needed to be forthright, honest, strict and unbending, shut down Merry’s dismissals and squirm aways with commanding control, demand attention and hold it firmly.

_But, how do I do that? Plead, threaten, a harshly worded Post-It note? Tie him down, gag him quiet, so tight he won’t be able to -_

“Hey, Pip!” Unfettered enthusiasm beamed into the great room. “Been all the way to the northern borders today. You should have come with, it was glorious!”

He needed to calm down, hold quaking nerves still, shut off fear, doubt, dig real deep to find the strength to face the worst possible scenario – Merry’s flat out rejection – as mature and detached.

_Don’t know what I – can’t live without – calm, detached? ‘Bout to piss myself I’m_ _so –_

Nana Banks had always said courage came in many flavors, but none of them distilled. _But, what if he says no?_

He decided Nana Banks had always talked too much. Moonshine mug drained dry.

“Still got to tackle the underbrush issue, all that dead stuff, terrible wildfire hazard.”

Merry was here, right here in front of him, and words – _oh, God, so many fucking words! –_ a logjam of frustration and worry, every one important, each imperative, the giant mass held back for days ready to bust out, crash forth, churned to a froth thoughts and feelings, enough words to drown them both a baker’s dozen.

_But, which are the right ones? Where do I start?_

“Going back out,” Merry exiting into the bathroom fast, “to check on the mulch situation down by the -”

For now, Pippin spoke only two.

Merry returning to the great room slowly. “What did you say?”

The twigs and bits of leaves stuck in Merry’s hair. That had to be the reason. Or the forest crud under his fingernails. Or the perspiration stains on his shirt. Or the dirt brushed across the back of his jeans in a thoughtless action sometime during the day. Or perhaps Nana Banks was right and alcohol did make you stupid, and considering the amount he had consumed in the last hours, that would make IQ round out to about four. But, he didn’t really care to hear the explanation as to why at that moment he needed nothing except to feel Merry’s arms about him, and why at the very sound of his lover’s voice the heat of lust had pooled in his crotch so fast knees went wobbly and tiny spots swam before his eyes. Not the plan, not the solution, and sex at such a critical relationship moment was definitely not the well-adjusted adult thing to do. Didn’t give a shit. Pippin wanted a connection again, Pippin wanted tenderness again, Pippin wanted laughter and love again. Pippin wanted Merry and that was that.

“Fuck me.”

“Not now, Pip, got so much -”

“Fuck me.”

“But, Treebeard is waiting for me to -”

_Oh, no, not this time, Meriadoc, this time you’re mine._ From the kitchen to the living room with deliberate steps, Pippin never diverting his eyes. “Fuck me.”

“Maybe later, maybe tonight, that is if I don’t get back too -”

“Fuck me.” Shirt, pulled up over head, left in a heap by the magazine stand, boots and socks hit the floor near the lamp, and the jeans would be next.

Merry’s focus intent on a little nick in the bathroom door jamb, picking at it with thumbnail, missed the floor show completely. “And if he comes back, walks in here while we’re -”

He took Merry’s hand, a slight tug to follow me, a gentle, yet firm, guide toward the overstuffed chair. “Fuck me.”

Now Merry couldn’t get enough of his feet, staring straight down as they shuffled to Pippin’s will. “Think I forgot my, uh,” now eyes went left, “my, uh, water bottle, yeah, that’s it,” now right, “can’t leave non-biodegradable stuff out there, so I better go get -” his eyes everywhere but on Pippin.

A shove, and ass found leather, Pippin so quick, their knees were kissing before Merry’s first sit down hard bounce was over. “Fuck me.”

“Telling you, I got to -”

Button, then zipper, jeans slid down, boxers dropped off and kicked aside, and Pippin stood there, naked, desire obvious. “Fuck me.”

Hands swallowed face, line of sight completely blocked. “Not a good idea, so not a good -”

“Fuck me.”

“Pip, don’t -”

“Fuck me.”

“Pip, stop -”

“Fuck me.”

“Goddammit! Just leave me the hell alone!”

Two fingers, below chin, a tender touch returning Merry’s face to the light. _Look at me._ “Fuck me.”

“I don’t,” eyes squeezed so tightly shut muscles twitched, “I can’t -”

Pippin caressed a sunburnt cheek. _Just look at me, all of me._ “Fuck me.”

“Please, _please,_ don’t force me to see -”

Chin grabbed, vise grip fingers pressing in illustrated continued refusal not acceptable. _Look, and say it’s me above all others._ “Fuck me.”

“Cut this shit – no, _no,_ I -”

Grip cranked tighter, with a rough head shake for keeps. _Look at me, goddamnnit, and say it doesn’t matter, look at me and say I haven’t changed, remember what happened and tell me I am worthy!_

In a corner, escape impossible, denial surrendered and eyes at last opened. “Oh god,” a sob, sharp and wretched , shattered through chest, through soul, as tears rained down. “I’m sorry, so, so sorry,” fingertips traced the bruises, mottled red, purplish blue, marks left there by brutal hands staining Pippin’s hips and thighs, “my fault, supposed to protect you, keep you – oh, Pip, I am so fucking sorry!”

A reminder of heroic deeds brushed along the healing cut above Merry’s bloodshot eye. “Fuck me.”

“Why, Pip? Why’d you do it?” Once sparked, guilt devoured, shame turning to anger for support. “So fucking stupid! You might have been, could have, shit, you almost were! _Why_?!”

A simple gesture, his most compelling reason, his purest purpose, Pippin placed his hand over Merry’s heart. “Fuck me.”

“Oh, god, I love you!”

A straddle, legs on either side of Merry, hands either side of lover’s face, the kiss his answer in kind. _He loves me!_

“Afraid, so fucking terrified, that I’d – and you wouldn’t let me – then I said all that stupid shit about -” Merry allowed the shirt tug off, sat still while Pippin undid the buttons of his jeans, and even helped a little to pull them down and away, tears flowing freely. “Thought I lost the best -”

“Fuck me.”

“But, you still love me? Even though I failed, please, say you forgive me, Pip, please tell me you -”

Another kiss, long and deep, explore and taste, Pippin’s treatise on unnecessary absolution not breaking until head grew light, and lips tingled buzzy. “Fuck me.”

“Goddamn, I want to, _really_ want to, been so long, just to hold you, but are you OK?” Shaky hands hovered over hips, like the briefest touch could crush. “Maybe it’s too soon, don’t want to hurt you, never, ever again hurt you.”

Grateful with all his heart for Treebeard’s dry skin, Pip reached for the cocoa butter perched on the end table. “Fuck me.”

Shivering, Merry’s head went back, groan born in his lust escaping unbidden, as his lover slicked him ready. “All for you, Pip, you know that, don’t you? Everything for you.”

“Fuck me.” Slippery hand reached round, preparing his body to accept.

“Gonna’ get them, though, convince the Ents to go after Saruman.”

“Fuck me.” Pip moved into place.

“Nobody, nobody touches you, Pip, nobody.”

He eased down, warmth rising up. Biting lip, he breathed through the pain, until muscles relaxed and he settled in, bringing skin to touch skin. “Fuck me.”

“Oh…god…Pippin!”

Mouth brought within breath brushing distance, hips rolling, hands captured a head full of messy hair. “Fuck me.”

Merry did as commanded, “To hell with it all…orcs and rings and…” put everything into it, thrusting deeper and stronger, “parents and Stell and marriage and…” over and over and over.

“Fuck me,” seized and held, head weeping for release, controlled inside and out, Pippin was…the confession, the confirmation, Merry’s concern and care and comfort – and cock… euphoric. “Fuck me!”

“No matter what, Pip,” jaw tight, holding back for just one more thrust, “I’ll always be with you. Never apart. Won’t let that happen. You and me. MerryandPip!”

“Fuck me.” Contracting deep inside, he brought his thighs to meet in the middle. Merry moaned, head falling forward, chin to chest, which was promptly yanked back to scald throat with need, sucking pulse point, a revelation the life pounding beneath his lips. “Fuck me!”

Latching on, Merry pushed into Pippin, muscles quivering with his effort. “No matter what, never let you go,” a cadence of thrusts, heels pounding on plank floor, “ _never_!”

“Fuck me!”

Two bodies joining, slamming against hard, making the sound of slapping skin fill the room. Merry rammed up into Pippin, closing fist around him, panting into his sweat slicked chest.

“Fuck me!”

Allowing body to be taken, Pippin’s spirit soared. _He loves me, LOVES me, always with me and I’ll never be alone again!_

In articulate sounds - “Uh – uh – Pip – uh – shit! – uh -” their intense coupling racing towards completion, passion crying out, the lovers climaxed together, each wringing the other dry.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Snuggling into Merry’s spent body, his own humming noodles, sweat and semen squishy between, Pippin reckoned a little water and white vinegar would clean up the chair stain just fine, the underbrush was all Treebeard’s problem from now on, supper tonight would be leftovers, and sometimes for the win, a heart need hardly to say anything at all.

 

 

*******

 

 

 

The sun disappeared before Treebeard returned only to leave again grumbling about ATVs and weekend drivers. With the treehouse to themselves, they did finally talk, about parents and plans, Estella and expectations. Merry held Pippin through the rest stop, and the reverse offered to Merry, the guilt and shame washed away with tears. Many apologies given and received, and Pippin even extracted a vow, that if Merry ever clammed up again, made unilateral relationship decisions, played fast and loose with the avoidance game, his balls would be hash on the breakfast table in the morning

Clean sheets just this morning put on the bed turned into a rumpled, sweaty mess as they moved their physical activities from the chair to a more comfortable location. Each bruise and cut lovingly kissed, every scrape and sore soothed with tender touches. Tense moments of sense memory panic eased through with patience and acceptance – and copious amounts of tongue - when Merry took Pippin into his mouth returning that loving act to their bedroom repertoire. But, the best, yes, even better than their second _and_ third times? The laughter, the giggling, snorting, side-stiching, nose running and completely out of breath laughter created by their together, those tears unadulterated joy.

Thoroughly wiped and wasted, but deliciously so, Merry and Pippin lay on their backs side by side, hands clasped and fingers entwined, sticky and wet and happy. The future a mystery; but for right now, it was perfection.

“Wonder what Frodo and Sam are doing?”

“If they’re lucky, the same thing we just did.”

“You really going to talk the Ents into attacking Saruman?”

“Gonna' sure as hell try.”

“Would have been nice to see Gandalf. Feel kinda’ responsible for that one.”

“That was his choice, Pip. Doesn’t matter anyway since he’s - wait a minute, that’s not possible.”

Eyes opened to where Merry’s finger had paused in lazy torso tracing. “What, what’s not possible?”

“Look at your feet.”

Pushing up on his elbows, he glanced at the end of the bed. Two sets poked up: one thin and spidery, the other blunt and square. “They’re feet, Merry, what’s the big deal?”

Shoulder sets aligned, a straight line all the way down. “See? Do you see?”

Another look. “Nope, still just feet.”

“But, my feet compared to yours. Notice anything strange?”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

The same height, that’s why they fit together so perfectly. Merry and Pip both at 5’6” always the same. That is until now.

“It’s gotta’ be at least a half an inch difference.”

Feet flapped out…feet flapped in. “A whole one, I’m thinking.”

Merry and his huff sat up. “That’s fucking impossible!”

“Isn’t that what you said about the Nazgul, and Sauron, and, if memory serves, Treebeard, too? You thirsty?” Quick as a wink, off the bed and to the kitchen. Mug poured full, a salute in Merry’s direction, Pippin’s finest slurpy swallow. “Ah, hits all the right spots.”

Merry and his more than slightly miffed – past judgment errors should remain buried there - swung legs over the edge. “What the hell is that?” “Some of Treebeard’s private stash, I’m thinking. Only it’s not like any alcohol I’ve ever tasted.”

“And just how much have you consumed?”

Pippin’s finger indicated starting point on jug, current liquid level a far piece below. “First thought this was some kinda’ moonshine, But, now…” A yawn, wide and loud, gaping maw of a sinkhole, then a stretch, deep and long, cat on a sunny windowsill. And Pippin grew taller still.

“But how – how -” Up from the bed, racing to the kitchen, Merry measured, head to head, only his came to just about Pippin’s mouth. “Another half an -” Time for a little math – Inhumanely tall + cabinet + Pippin’s bender + he was now the short one = “It’s this, the drink!” The wildly improbable embraced in a heartbeat. “Give me some!”

The jug moved away, away from overly interested hands. “Just a minute, Merry.”

The once again grab - “Give it!” – Pip once more twisting away.

“I’m fixin’ to, Merry!” A glance from jug…to lover…back to the jug. “Just not right now.” He was off like a shot running and drinking at the same time.

“Peregrin!”

Through the living room furniture, almost knocking over the potted plant stand, up and over the bed, behind the huge oaken chairs in the dining area, around the kitchen table Merry chased. Pippin was fast and agile, but Merry relied on his greater bulk to bring prey down, tackling from behind, the couple sprawling on the woven oval rug by the wall of French doors, combined giggles singing.

“Merry! Stop that!” Tickling fingers relentless. “Stop it!”

Situation’s master, Pippin trapped under and between, Merry yanked his hard fought for prize free. “My turn!” Jug upended, what Pippin had not consumed or splashed all over the floor, he finished off with a lip smack.

“I was gonna’ share, Merry, I swear!”

“Sure you were, Pip.” With his growth spurt imminent, it was high time to take advantage of the wriggling, naked body beneath him. Nipples, little brown nubs, erect and inviting, became the focus, each taken between two fingers, taut flesh rolled to attention, Pippin moaning, pushing up for more.

“Shit, shit!” He could feel the heat rising, and it didn’t matter that Merry sat right on his bruises, what mouth was now giving, pain was completely distracted. “Merry, feels so fucking - hey! Why’d you stop?”

“Oh, my god.”

“What is it?” The twist around to see what had had the audacity to interrupt foreplay. “What are you -”

“Oh, my god.” Merry stood up and walked toward the deck, “didn’t want to believe he would really -” opening the French doors and, heedless of October on naked flesh, he crossed out onto the twilight, “but, oh, my god, he is!”

Not happy, Pippin scrambled up off the floor, “Jesus, Merry! It’s fucking cold!” Dragging a blanket from the bed, he ran out to his friend. “Who’s he? What’s he done? And where are all those – oh, my god!”

A seemingly endless line of headlights in the distance traveling from the east to the west along Highway 78.

From behind body and blanket wrapped around a shivering Merry, whether from cold, or the sight of all those vehicles, Pippin had a hunch it was a little of both. “So many, hundreds, maybe - so fucking many!”

“And all headed for Rohan, I bet.”

“Is that what I think it is? Is that _who_ I think it is?”

“Yup, sure as hell is.” Merry tugged Pippin tighter. “They’re coming. Saruman is coming.”

 And the Entmoot was still two days away.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's note...With the shrieks of the purists still ringing in my ears, I sat down to write Helm's Deep. Didn't want to offend anyone. Then I thought, if you're a purist, you are probably not going to be reading this AU. So with that in mind, here begins my version of Helm's Deep..._

 

The Ring Goes South  
Chapter Eleven

 

The sky drained its grey over the New York City streets. Cares and concerns, hopes and dreams collected in the gutters sliding away leaving a slick, glittering void that reeked of mediocrity. She waited on the front steps for the taxi to take her to the airport, and the cab was late. Didn’t really matter, though. She had grown accustomed to it. Her life a long series of waits, anticipating events to turn, always ready to jump in and join in the dance. Only now, last call had passed, band’s instruments packed up, and Arwen still sat on the sidelines, her dance card empty. No, that was not accurate, one name did appear there. Only their song had never played, and the chance to take the floor now lost.

She had waited ages for the spark, that certain something that makes us come alive and greet each new day giddy with the possibilities. She had waited as the world had turned and changed, never losing faith that one day her heart would stumble, falling into her stomach at the mere mention of that special name. The waiting had seemed endless. She had waited until it became all she understood. Salvation at last arrived in the form of a 20-year-old libido with crystal blue eyes.

1937, they listened to Glenn Miller, held hands as Astaire and Rodgers graced the Silver Screen, and despaired as Europe swept towards war. Simple and in love, Arwen’s song trilled full of the possible. Neither the disapproval of her father nor the separation caused by Pearl Harbor could dim that song. All she had to do was wait. What was a few years compared to the lifetime just spent? He would return to her.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki burned the world into the next age. They declared their love while Sputnik spun high above and Elvis asked if they were lonesome tonight. Paternal demands and the Russian missiles in Cuba called him away, but Arwen waited patiently again, counting the time not with tears, but with hopes. He would return to her.

The British invaded, skirts went mini and they devoured “Stranger in a Strange Land.” They tuned in, turned on, and dropped out. A father’s decree and a call to duty, Vietnam and stop the Communist infection, watching it all unfold before her on the evening news. Tried not to let the horrors into her world, as Arwen waited again. He would return to her.

They caught disco fever and “All in the Family” every week. Both traveled to a galaxy far, far away to escape the prohibitions of her father. A country torn from within, man’s inhumanity to man, and Arwen waited one more time as he joined in the humid jungles of El Salvador. Updates were few, communication sporadic. Still not yielding, Arwen dreamed. He would return to her.

Laughing all the way through “Ghostbusters”, they kept in touch with bulky cell phones and beepers, dodging her father ultimatums. The burning sand choked his throat, crept into everything and she waited, stayed connected through Wolf Blitzer’s words. Years of this routine under her belt, to fill the empty hours Arwen threw herself into AmFar, spreading the word about the need for testing. She didn’t worry. He would return to her.

Everybody knew their names at Cheers, and they gained Friends on Thursday night. She pulled her hip huggers out of storage, he bought a DVD player and for the first time both heard the buzzy tune of DSL. Her father’s decision still stood while the “Titanic” went down again and again. And again. High-jacked planes, a nation deeply wounded, and the Middle East erupted yet again, his place there to lead, hers here to help New Orleans heal, and to wait once more. She never doubted, though. He would return to her.

They got Lost, joined Glee, and stood in line at the Apple Store. Aid sent to Haiti, and rejoicing for elected Change to Washington, DC. Then a young man, bloodied and broken, fell on the front steps carrying both the answer and the curse. He left her once more, walking away with eight companions. Only this time she could not wait.

The Fellowship had broken, Frodo walked alone, and Rohan and Gondor faced insurmountable odds. Should Sauron’s will see complete fruition, should the world of men fall, Aragorn among the dead, Arda would lay in tatters, plunged into perpetual darkness. He would not return to her.

Even should Rohan triumph against Sauron’s puppet, Saruman, The Dark Lord would most assuredly find the Ring, kill the one who carried it, and take his rage out on all those who opposed him. He would not return to her.

Impossible to fathom, if Rohan defeated her enemy, Minas Tirith’s walls held, if Frodo reached Mt. Doom and flung the Ring into the fire, if the world of men breathed free, and all that she had dreamed for came true, still they could not be together. Not now.

The taxi swooshed up to the steps. No time for hesitation. Decision made, Arwen slipped into the cab, ready to take that final journey West, ready to spend eternity waiting.

She would not return to him.

*****

_My two brightest stars gone, Rivendell, Arda, all the heavens now forever dim._

  
Over the Sundering Seas, wife and daughter eternally together. However, here sons strong and brave, a duty and purpose to see fulfilled whatever the cost, these were the consoling comforts leaned upon for strength and balance.

_Be safe, Little One. Be safe and –_

“Bollocks!” Snatching angrily at his Android, Elrond took eyes off the retreating cab to answer the ping, a text message his interruption. “This had better be…oh.”

_Rohan in trouble. Send help._

“They are beyond any I could -”

PING!

_Now._

“There’s no time to -”

PING!

_Now!_

“But, we must look to our -”

PING!

_Please, Ada. For me?_

Tears slipped down through laughter, a father’s heartstring played one last time. “Yes, ma’am.” Desk phone grabbed, the parting wish, request, demand of Arwen Undomiel – _The Blessed Realm could use some help now as well_ – fulfilled. “Erestor, get me the Institute.”

 

*****

 

“Right this way. This way! No, no, this way! Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?”

“Maybe you should stand on a box.” Legolas’ suggestion passed Gimli, his crew following behind in a perfect line.

And the suggestion received the one finger salute before Gimli raced after the wayward generators.

“We will be well supplied with ammunition.”  
“Good. Thank you, Legolas. We place breaks there, there, over there and right here,” Theoden pointed as he marched across the field in front of the bunker, “Must keep them away from the entrance, away from the civilians.”

“Uh, sir…” Confused, overwhelmed, and not at all ashamed to admit it, more than a bit terrified of the next 48 hours, Gamling, who had just reluctantly received a “field” commission from Breeding Foreman to Command Adjunct, and his notebook scrambled after, his chicken scratchier than ever as a salient point begged for clarification. “When you say civilians -”

Theoden, however, had moved on. “Have you reached him yet?”

“No, Uncle,” Eowyn stomped from place to place, trying to find the best reception. “Eomer, why can’t you hear me?”

Her stomp nearly got eardrums blown out by walking in front of Gimli, now armed with a bullhorn.

“Those generators go over there, you idiots! Sorry ‘bout that, miss. No, there! What, am I speaking a foreign language here?”

“No, you are, however, shouting at the wrong people,” Gandalf looked up to see his crew caring for the horses bullhorn blistered. “Your generators are over there.”

“Oh. You idiots! How can you get lost out in the open?” His amplified voice swept across the field.

“They know exactly where they are, Gimli,” stinging remark walked by again, “should I find you a map?”

Bullhorn blistered Legolas. “No, thank you. My sense of direction is very keen.”

“Then you would mind going in another one, so I can hear to use this thing?” That was Eowyn, ears still ringing louder than anything coming from her IPhone.

“Gamling, are you getting all this?”

“I think so, sir,” no, not really, “Floodlights?”

“I’m on it!” Aragorn breezed by.

“See that the cords do not run through the stables,” a Gandalf request, “Wouldn’t want to be thrown into darkness by an equine misstep.”

“Won’t have any lights to turn on if we don’t get those generators up and working,” Gimli, finally in full command of his crew.

“All ammo is safely stored. I could give you a hand, Gimli.”

“Not too proud to take help when it is honestly offered. Even you, Legolas. Come on, then. Put your back into it, lads!”

“Only have enough lights and cords for four or five out here,” Aragorn traveled by again, trailed by bright orange, “Don’t want to leave the civilians in the dark.

“Again with the civilians.” Gamling did not chicken scratch that under breathed remark.

“That’s it! I’m switching to Sprint!” Disgust tossed Apple ingenuity to the dust. “Maybe I can reach my brother with semaphore.”

“I hear carrier pigeons are making a comeback.” Gandalf gave the young woman one of his brightest twinkles.

“Hope these bulbs last,” Aragorn dragging by another cord, “No replacements.”

“Maybe Saruman will attack during the day,” Legolas in search of a good hiding place for Gimli’s bullhorn.

“Not bloody likely,” Theoden did his best to dampen the mood further, “Anything to make this more difficult. Gamling!”

“Right here, sir.” At his elbow

“Good. Now where were we?”

“Would this be a bad time to mention the refrigeration doesn’t seem to be working in there?”

Theoden turned on Gimli. “What?”

“No coolant.”

“That means no AC, either.” An unnecessary Legolas reminder.

“Let’s hope we all packed deodorant.” Aragorn went by again.

“Don’t look at me,” the defensive supply coordinator, “not on the ‘essential’ list.”

“Great.” Gamling peeled sweaty shirt off his chest.

“We could get lucky,” fresh as a spring morning daisy Legolas, “and it be a short battle.”

“Fighting in the cool of the night looks more appealing now, doesn’t it?” Gandalf received only stony stares.  
“Got a problem inside, lots of arguing,” umpteenth trip by for Aragorn, “something about bunking in the kids room?”

An Eowyn eye roll headed underground. “I’m on it.”

“And Eomer?”

A HUGE Eowyn eye roll backtracked to retrieve tantrum discarded phone. “I’m on that, too. Any other crisis I could handle on the way?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it, the horses are very perturbed about the lack of sufficient straw in their -”

Eowyn, eye roll and barely checked murderous intent left Gandalf hanging.

“So,” Theoden back to business, “no coolant, but will we have power?”

“As soon as those lads finish hooking up the generators, which should be,” a Gimli watch glance, “right about -”

“Wonderful!” Aragorn rigged lights switched on.

“Fabulous.” Aragorn rigged lights switched off.

“That’s my cue,” Gimli headed inside.

“And that’s why I prefer horses,” Eowyn’s return topside mood fifty shades darker, “They don’t argue about stupid shit!”

“Actually,” Aragorn and teeth tearing at duct tape stripes both bound for extension cord connections, “your horses argue quite a bit.”

“Even with all these preparations, I just don’t know,” Theoden assessing the upcoming battlefield, “Saruman will surely deploy ever last resource against us, to the very last orc, everything he’s got.” At his side, Gamling sheet white. “If only we had more time, more men. If only we had -”

“Eomer. Yeah, I know, uncle.” Search for missing brother back on the phone.

“Carrier pigeons, I’m telling -”

“Good Lord, what was that?” A huge cloud of black smoke poured from the bunker’s door.

“Excuse me.”

“Looks like more than ice cold beer is off the menu around here.” A unique still moment for Aragorn.

“Wait, we have beer?” Gamling’s interest piqued.

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” Gimli’s cough immerged from the smoke, blackened, eyes shining white in contrast. “Just the exhaust valves being opened. Years of settled dust and debris, that’s all.”

“We do have water, I hope,” Legolas smirked at his sooty friend.

“That all has to be cleared out before we can even think about taking the horses inside.”

“Which should take about an hour.” A marginally accurate estimate at best.

“Excuse me!”

“Great! The sun should set in about twenty minutes!”

“Maybe we can ask Saruman to wait down the road until we’re ready.”

“Oh, this is just perfect! All our equipment is spread out all over the field, and the only things inside are broken generators, non-functioning AC and bickering civilians!”

“Ah, sir, about that civilians thing,”

“This is a disaster! Saruman is probably laughing his -”

“EXCUSE ME!”

The long car horn blast certainly snatched all the disparate threads of scattered focus’ attention taut.

“Finally.” Imperiousness stepped down from the black Escalade. “Thought that prattling would never cease.” Imperiousness sniffed at the scraggle scruffy gawking group. “Could someone please enlighten me as to where one would find -”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” And imperiousness nearly sacked by a bear hug. “What are you doing here?”

A Gimli whisper. “Isn’t that the guy from -”

A Legolas smile. “I believe it is.”

An Eowyn eavesdrop. “You two know him?”

A Gandalf snort. “Not in the same way.”

Extracting from the effusive, and slightly gauche, greeting, dignity ever pristine, the newcomer stood prouder still, if that was even possible, absolute authority speaking out clear. “Compliments of Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel.” Escalade doors opened and seven men, all tall, slender and fully armed, disembarked. Passengers of three other vehicles queued up behind neatly joined their ranks. Standing at attention, snapped to with exacting precision, the company, 36 strong, waited only for the word.

Theoden marched front and center. “Who are you? What is the meaning of this?”

“Heard you had a fight on your hands.” Inclining head, Haldir smiled slyly. “Mind if we join you?”

 

 

*****

 

 

Eowyn shoved the boxes on the shelf to the left. Another inch or so and a few more could fit up there. Keep them off the floor and away from the vermin who had taken up residence in Helm’s Deep in the vacant years. _Really hate this place_. Only visited it once before, but the sensation of being boxed or caged in had had her running for the fresh air and sunshine within minutes. That visit she and four other people had braved the dark of the bunker. 150 people, all they could gather on such short notice, with 30 horses and all the necessary equipment and firepower now cramped this concrete hole. Add in 37 more with the arrival of those strange men from Rivendell and you had yourself a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare.

_Really, REALLY hate it!_

Judgment on those guys still not in yet. The leader, Haldir, made her hackles go up, something about his manner made you feel like the biggest dork standing there with a pocket protector, tape on your glasses and your fly hanging open. The only ones who did not fall under his condescending glare were Legolas, who, now that she had time to think about it, looked clone creepy, and Aragorn. _Aragorn. Aragorn with the crystal eyes. Aragorn with the secret smile. Aragorn with the tight ass…_

“Damn!” She pulled her hand back in pain. Mind on other things, she had carelessly scraped against the rusted metal shelf. The blood began to pool, deep and red.

“Let me help you with that.”

Eowyn started once at the voice, then again when Aragorn grabbed her hand. “What, what are you doing?”

Handkerchief pressed against the wound. “Rendering first aid.”

Now, this had all the elements of an excellent romance novel plot – unaware, alone, our protags meet by chance, witty conversation, flirts zinged and answered, there’s the spark, a glimmer, connection tugs and their fate is sealed.

Only she loathed surprises, especially the ass from her last less than innocent thought suddenly made flesh. “No, I mean -”

And considering they were six feet under, encased in concrete, sweaty, filthy, irritated at everything, with death due anytime now, the day after probable world destruct –

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” Pressure on her hand eased. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

As romance plots go, there could be a notebook tossed in here somewhere and it would still suck.

“What are you doing _here_?”

“Came to get some salt. Gimli says the chili is too bland.”

“Hey! I made that chili!”

“To me it was perfection.”

He smiled broadly and her heart melted.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Her hand still held between his.

“Feeling restless, I guess. Need to keep busy.” His eyes even a colder blue in the dim light of the pantry. He smelled not of pipe smoke anymore, but clean and tart. His hair was even combed and lounged about his head carefree. “Couldn’t contribute anything to the conversation anyway. Not much of a history buff.”

“Can get boring those old war stores.” He checked her cut, a gentle peek. “Think the bleeding’s stopped,” but his grasp did not release.

“You tell them almost like you were there. Like they happened to you.”

“They did.”

“You fought in World War Two?” Incredulity raised eyebrows. “That would make you, uh, what?”

“Eighty seven.” Thumb brushed along the top of her hand, the sensation mesmerizing.

Couldn’t help it, a dweeby snort escaped. “Quit yanking my chain! You don’t look a day over forty!”

Smile shy. “Those in my family are remarkably well preserved.”

“I should say.” She reached up, fingers hovering by his brow. “No wrinkles. Whatever it is that keeps you so young, you should find some way to market it. You’d make a killing.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, thank you.”

Sure that her cut had to be cauterized by now considering the heat built up where their hands touched, Eowyn reluctantly removed hers. “You and that Rivendell guy seem like good friends. Legolas, too.”

Without her hand, Aragorn seemed at a loss what to do with his. They strayed a little towards Eowyn, then found a home in pants’ pockets. “Haldir? We’re just old friends. Legolas is sort of family.”

“Oh, like a cousin, or something?”

He chuckled a little. “Or something.”

The whir of the fan circulating the stale air of the bunker faded into white background noise as a charged silence fell between them. Aragorn’s face cut shadowy angles. One eye obscured, the other lit by the single 60-watt bulb dangling on the bare chain above. Chin lost, but forehead clear. A stubbly cheek shined, a stubbly cheek disappeared. Half with her, half belonging to another. _Who are you?_

Aragorn turned to go. “I best be getting back, then.”

“Not without this, since it’s the only thing that will apparently make my chili eatable.” The box of salt offered, Aragorn reached for it, their fingers kissing around the cardboard. The jolt she felt all up her arm settled in the pit of her stomach. “Where you’d get that?” the long wondered after question sneaking out before nerve closed up shop. “That necklace, I mean. Got to be from a girlfriend.”

Aragorn’s hand fiddled with the jewel, the other still held the box and Eowyn. “Why would you think that?”

Another snort. “No straight man would ever buy and wear something that frou-frou for himself. That is girlfriend/wife material.” _Please, god, tell me he’s straight._

Fingers caressed the intricate design while eyes journeyed far. “Arwen. Arwen gave this to me as a parting gift.”

And now Eowyn wished she had never opened her mouth. The dizzy in her stomach fell to stone. _Just my luck. Out of all the men in Arda, I pick the one who is attached._ “Oh,” disappointment slow to duck away, “It’s very beautiful.” Salt relinquished, arm dropping limply to her side.

“As is the lady who bestowed it.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” She spun back to the shelf to hide the flush on her cheeks. _That’s nice? How banal can you be! Probably thinks I’m vocabularly challenged as well as a busybody._ “You must miss her very much.”

“Yes, yes I do.” Aragorn leaned back on the opposite shelves, crossing ankles and arms before him, casual and content. “And by now, following her father’s wishes, Arwen is in the West.”

_Oh?_ Hope and Eowyn snuck a peek over her shoulder. “She moved to California?”

Lips tugged on a tiny smile. “A little bit further west than that, I’m afraid. But, it makes no difference. Arwen will not be returning.”

“Ever?”

“Where Arwen has gone, there is no round trip.”

Properly, maturely, in a non-pathetic angling for a date way, she should feel sadness for Aragorn and Arwen, sympathy for the lovers torn asunder. Looking at his lean frame and large work toughened hands, however, Eowyn’s thoughts were anything but proper. _I wonder if he’s a biter._ “I’m sorry, Aragorn. You must have loved her very much.”

“I do, Eowyn.” His eyes caught hers. “But, these are dark days. It is a comfort to know that Arwen is safe and cannot be touched by the growing evil. Let’s see how that hand is.”

Before the words, ‘No, really, I’m fine’ could roll out of bed, her hand was once again enveloped by his warmth. If she said that now, she knew it would be a lie. Looking at him, Eowyn knew she would never be fine again.

“Aragorn, not only do you have an irate engineer who is still waiting for his salt, but Gandalf -”

_Oh, shit!_ Eowyn moved quick, blushing under Legolas’ bemused stare. “My hand is fine. Thank you, Aragorn. Don’t forget your salt.” She turned, hands fluttering around the boxes, praying she appeared busy, at ease, and not wracked with guilt over something that had never happened. _But, it could, and it might, and if I…if he…_

“Right, well, thanks for the salt, and don’t forget to have that cut looked after. Good night, Eowyn.” Aragorn exited, a curt nod and Legolas shut the door behind them.

Counting to ten, Eowyn exhaled loudly, then sank to the floor, legs the consistency of rubber, head filled with helium. The only part of her body well-grounded and real: her hand, still tingly from Aragorn’s touch.

_Watch yourself, Wyn, fall too hard, you could break something important._

 

 

*****

 

 

“What’s this about Gandalf?”

“Wants us outside immediately.”

“Well, when the old man calls.”

Narrow and dusty, ceiling breathing down necks, the bunker halls led them on a turning twisty twilight route to above ground. Voices, muffled murmurs, others crackling sharp from room after room after room, conversation all the same: “What will tomorrow bring?” And room after room had no answer.

“So, Eowyn. She seems…” From the depths of his vocabulary, encompassing dozens of languages, both common and arcane, Legolas pulled out the adjective, “…nice.”

“She is, and competent, intuitive -”

“Mmmm uhmmm.”

“A natural with horses -”

“And very beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

Was that regret, guilt, brief upon countenance and conscious, “I suppose so, yes.” Or interest?

“Mmm uhmm.”

In the waning dusk, they found Gimli alone, humming tunelessly, and head swimming in pipe smoke.

“So, the missing have been – there’s my salt!” Not much good to him now, dinner table long since cleared. But, if breakfast in the morning brought eggs, cooked any way, and hashbrowns, then it would – unless ketchup…or tabasco…or both.

“Aren’t we out here for Gandalf?” Aragorn fell into place on Gimli’s left, Legolas to his right, three cast shadows melding to one. “Where is he?”

“Just missed him. Rode off muttering something about time moving too swiftly.”

“And he went?”

“In search of Eomer and his men. We are to look for him in two of the moon’s cycles as the sun warms the horizon bringing light to the long darkness.”

“He couldn’t have just said, ‘First thing day after tomorrow?’”

“Too pedestrian,” all three shared the chuckle, “not his style.”

A black blanket draped over the tops of the trees. Venus blinked, Mars a fiery dot, Ursa Major with his sidekick showed up right on time. The field unencumbered for 250 yards out from the bunker bore the scars of the coming of Rohan, deep ruts gouged the dirt, grass trampled under tires, hooves and feet. Nothing compared to what it would soon endure.

“You think Eomer coming will make a hill of beans difference?” Gimli just wondering aloud.

Aragorn pondered that one for a moment. “No. Not really.”

“And Haldir?”

“Maybe. One can always hope for a miracle, I guess.”

“And Frodo and Sam?”

“A miracle needed, indeed.”

A head stuck out the bunker door, sarcastic tone calling. “His royal highness requires your presence, he has a new strategy to discuss.”

“What strategy?”

“His royal highness?” Both Legolas and Gimli equally clueless.

“I don’t know. From his Academy days. The Hornberg maneuver or something like that.” Last straw trampled to dust many hours ago, twenty questions for Gamling not happening. “Just come on guys, OK?”

Aragorn waved ‘they would be right there’ and the steel door swallowed the harried assistant.  
The three fell into step, each matching the other’s stride as they returned to the bunker. “If we do make it through this to see another day, I’m going have t-shirts printed for everyone ‘I Survived Helm’s Deep’. What do you think?”

Aragorn threw an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Would wear it proudly, Legolas,”

“Aye, that I would.” Gimli agreed.

No one noticed the headlights in the distance.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Ring Goes South**  
Chapter Twelve  


 

  
  
_It figures he would have ultra-lights._ Gollum held the smoke in his lungs longer than usual before blowing out a white stream quickly dispersed by the falling rain. _Sissy cigarettes for a sissy boy.  
_  
Inconceivable that he should carry the Treasure. Inconceivable that Smeagol, the twit, had agreed to show him to Mordor. _Should have throttled him first chance, then we wouldn’t be playing patsy to a weakling._  
  
A weakling, yes, that’s exactly what Frodo Baggins was. A wide-eyed dupe conned into making a journey he had no chance of surviving. Stupid, weak, and getting weaker all the time. It was in his eyes, the way he walked, moved, ate, even slept. The Treasure was taking Frodo, pulling him in, dragging him under. The signs, Gollum understood the battle, intimately. _Just let go, give in to the Eye. Save us a whole hell of a lot of trouble, that’s for damn sure._ But, he didn’t, he fought constantly, the pull, the pressure, the promise, fought to remain Frodo.   
  
_Maybe he’s not so weak after all._  
  
He was still stupid, though. Stupid and naïve to think he could just waltz right up to the front gates of Mordor, knock and they would let him in pretty as you please. Gollum cleared their sinuses. _What a fucking moron!_  
  
“Bbbut, we ssset him ssstraight, ddidn’t we?”  
  
“That’s right, love, we did.”  
  
www.TheGrassyKnoll..net. A stroke of genius if Gollum did say so themself. Everything you could possible want to know about, and _many_ things you didn’t, could be found just lurking out there on the information super highway, and one of Ocean City’s many coffee dives and Internet cafes had suited Gollum’s dark web teachable moment needs perfectly.  
  
Sipping his double caff nonfat vanilla latte, pretty boy’s eyes had grown wider still at that web page dedicated to exposing the truth behind all the shadow government’s cloaked dealings.  
  
“You’ve got to see this, Sam!”  
  
“No, thank you, Frodo. Don’t give a shit where Elvis is living, or what the Illuminati’s been up to.”  
  
“This is incredible!” Frodo scrolled down, his overpriced caffeine left to cool in his hand. “Shape-shifting reptiles, Katy Perry is Jon Benet Ramsey, Pokemon Go a CIA surveillance tool – oh! Did you know genetically enhanced milk is actually the government’s plan for mind control?”  
  
Sam snorted into his plain, black coffee. “That’s assuming there’s someone in DC smart enough to control anything except their own paychecks.”  
  
“This issss it.”  
  
“That’s Mordor?” Frodo stared blankly at the digital images on the monitor. “Holy shit!”  
  
“Ttttold you.”  
  
The gates, constructed of black marble or stone, or some other equally impenetrable substance, rose at least 25 feet in the air. Guards walked the tops surrounded by tortured, spiked wire that fairly bristled with a stunning current. Only one road led to the gates, open field and barren rock flowed out leaving no hiding spots, no place from which to creep up.  
  
“There’s no fucking way we’re getting in there,” Sam added his two cents, finally sufficiently provoked morbid curiosity peering over Frodo’s shoulder, “No way in hell.”  
  
The next picture in the clandestinely obtained set had obviously been taken from some distance, but showed the gates opened slightly to admit a line of supply trucks. “We have no choice, Sam. We’ve got to try.”  
  
“That’s – that’s – fucking nuts!! That and taking the advice of this schmuck.”  
  
“Well, there isss another wwway into Mordor.”

Frodo and Sam double takes. “Another - another way?”

“The Tunnel.”  
  
Gollum was so proud of Smeagol, following the plans made the previous night after the two queers had finally gone to sleep. Above all else, the Treasure must be taken back, and Gollum saw no way of accomplishing that goal alone short of killing the pussy.

“Which would be sooooo easy.”

“Yessss, sooooo vvvvery easy.”

“Choke him, drown him, push him in front of a bus.”

“Ppppoison him.”

“Knife him.”

“Smmmash in his skkkull!”

“Right now, while he’s sleeping.”

“Rrright here.”

“Go over there and -”

A snore, a slumber mumble as protective arm gathered round tighter.

“- maybe we’ll do it later.”  
  
Sam. _Samwise._ Just the name brought anger to seething. Master never teased them, never ridiculed or kicked. But, Samwise never missed an opportunity to belittle, demean or diminish, to strike out in their direction. And the way he fawned all over Frodo made even Smeagol sick. Every cough, sneeze or twitch, Sam’s hands flew to his boy toy, grasping and petting, puling words of care and encouragement. What sissy boy saw in that chubby wimp, Gollum could not fathom, except, of course, maybe the size of his prick. If the sounds coming through the bedroom door were any indication, Samwise’s only attribute hung between his legs and Frodo kept him around simply for the pleasure of being fucked. It couldn’t be love – _fuck no -_ even though that word was spoken between the two countless times throughout the day - gentle touches and soft smiles shared, showing affection not voiced – _like watching a bunch of girls doing their hair._  Love was a useless emotion, wasted breath, draining strength from body, reason from head until you were left a pile of nothing, weak and stupid.  
  
“Mmmaybe it issss lllove, pprecious. Bbboth are stupid.”  
  
“OK, it’s love between pretty boy and his prick. So what? That just makes our job easier.”

Not in the sense of slash one…two, take The Treasure back from bloody faggot corpses. That supremely satisfying scenario abandoned while nursing broken ribs pretty early on. They were good, but the fat boy was quicker, stronger, enraged, and always anticipating. So, being witness to bulging eyes, drooling spit and snotty tears, Samwise impotent to claw against the fists around his throat squeezing…squeezing – _the perfect revenge! –_ an oft visited fantasy only.  
  
No, the more prudent, and less painful, alternative to regaining their stolen property had required not much more than a Starbucks nudge in the right direction. _That and pretty boy’s misplaced trust._  All they had to do was deliver on their years old bargain, then sit back and let Her enjoy a good meal. And if in the undigested clothes a certain ring was waiting to be claimed…a win/win for all involved. _Well, except for the queers._ But, those idiots didn’t matter, nothing did.

_Only The Treasure._

Getting Frodo to fall into the Tunnel trap had been the easy part, traveling there…not so much.  
  
“Couldn’t keep his hands to himself,” the mucous moist sound of Gollum clearing their sinuses, “Just had to play with the it.”

Tapped out by Ocean City, and further trips to the ATM suicidal, the only mode of getting to Mordor transportation available – their thumbs. And on the state route less traveled – itinerary pointing them to the extreme end of the Eastern shore, as far south as Maryland went – ride inventory had proved dishearteningly slim. After they had watched the rust bucket Ram truck, only the fourth traveler in an hour, whiz by without so much as a rearview mirror glance back, it was Sam’s suggestion to tweak the product packaging a smidge. Many were offered, but only one nabbed the sale – Frodo out front, Sam standing back, and Gollum –

_In the goddamn bushes._

The Easterlings, a traveling family gospel group, shared liberally their conversation, supplies and sympathy for the downtrodden, accepting their predicament’s non-explanation with gracious charity. And the something else given in abundance, by Daddy Easterling’s 300 plus pounds in particular, when Frodo’s napping head dropped to Sam’s shoulder, and dreaming hand to Sam’s crotch, was condemnation, denigration and damnation, the voice of righteousness booming out around their tricked out Zephyr about the sins of the flesh, scaring a pregnant and couldn’t be a day over 14 Sissy Easterling to tears, and Mama to swerve across the double yellow spilling her 90 proof ‘nerve’ medicine. Booted off somewhere on Route 43, hands stuffed with King James and the order form for their new CD, the sodomites did have the comfort of being added to their prayer list.

“Knew it wass only ffffor his ppprick.”  
  
Their next ride had been at least quieter, but Gollum soon discovered that even unassuming people could be irritating as shit. Especially when those people are cheerful Vegans, itinerate poets and avocational mimes. He lost interest in the “No, really, we don’t need another one” demonstration before man bun could even climb into “The Box”,  but not that slender redhead morsel driving, and they soon found the perfect bored to tears diversion in the back of the van.  
  
“Goddammit!” Sam’s fury detonated as van rubber had squealed to get away. “Piece of shit pervert!”

“Tttakes one ttto know one.”

“Did you just call me a -” indignation and fists went flying. “That’s it! Gonna take you -”

“Sam, don’t, STOP!” Frodo had had to step between.. “It’s over, OK? Nothing we can do about it now. Let’s just go on from here.”  
  
“And where is here, Frodo, huh?” He turned a wide circle showcasing the deserted road around them. “Just where the fuck is here?”  
  
“Only a guess, but I’d say -” a point to the battered bent and weather worn county maintained sign he slumped upon, “- then miles from Crisfield.”  
  
“We’d be all the way TO Crisfield if he hadn’t gone rummaging through their luggage. Fucking pervert!” Sam had managed to land a hard kick before Gollum scooted away.  
  
That spot still ached, but, “Yeah,” Gollum stroked the used panties in their pocket, “it was worth it.”  
  
Now reduced to walking, the travelers trudged down Route 13 towards Crisfield, moods roiling dark as the far horizon, the time passing with Sam entertaining with snide comments aimed at their guide, Gollum’s unceasing and resonant sinus problems and Frodo’s increasing fatigue, one step out of ten a stumble, every breath raspier than the last. Craptastic way to travel, but at least it hadn’t been –

“Well, shit.”

Raining. No, storming. No, more like biblical wrath in a blinding deluge with thunder, lightning and little dime sized hail thrown in for some human target practice.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout this, Frodo,” but not really, stepping into the road, the next car flagged down, a 1974 yellow Ford LTD with white walls and the optional moon roof skidded to a stop. “Thanks, ma’am,” Sam had given an approximation of Pippin’s accent, figuring southern charm would work better in a situation such as this then Brooklyn sass. “Car broke down back yonder a ways and my brother here is real sick like and we was wonderin’ if maybe you could just give us a ride into town.”   
  
To Frodo’s credit, though he vowed after “losing a kidney”, never to play ill again, he leaned against Sam and coughed weakly. “That is iffn’ ya’ll’s goin’ that way.” His accent dead on, and he clinched the deal with a flutter of his eyelashes.  
  
Those last ten miles to Crisfield had been spent dripping on a backseat the size of a Toyota Corolla listening to Johnny Mathis on the eight-track. Dropped off at the ferry site, after a fine fish fry lunch, they exchanged a promise to visit the very next time through town for a small package of Kleenex pressed into the dear, sick boy’s hand. Just in case.  
  
“Prick thinks he’s the shit now just ‘cause of those old ladies,” Gollum spat, the mucus splatting against the concrete near the picnic table, the slime washed away by the rain. “And prissy boy telling him how wonderful he was. Enough to make me lose my lunch.”  
  
“But it wassss the pppprick who hurled.” They laughed until their stomach hurt.  
  
“Don’t feel so good about this, Frodo,” Sam had kvetched as the small ferry pulled out from the dock.  
  
Crisfield reached, it was time to turn right. A ferry to Smith Island in the middle of the Bay, then another to the mainland and Mordor.  
  
“Only way to ggget to the island. But, if your fffrightened, you could always stay on sssshore. I’ll get Mmmaster to the Ssstairs.”  
  
Too busy white-knuckling the railing, Sam didn’t even scowl at the suggestion. “Not feeling good about those stairs, neither. Or that tunnel. The way he talks about them just creeps me out.”  
  
Frodo had enjoyed the movement of the boat, the sensations, the motor thrumming under his feet, as they skipped through the choppy water. “Smeagol assures me they are perfectly safe, if a little steep.”  
  
“Ssssafe for Mmmaster. Of course, The Stairs are ssafe.”  
  
“Not taking the pervert’s word for anything.” Swaying slightly against the motion of the boat, Sam swallowed tight.  
  
“Sam, you don’t look so good.”  
  
“Boats’re not my favorite thing, Frodo.”  
  
Taking Sam’s hand, Frodo started at the clamminess, it nearly dripped, and a quick hug found him trembling. “But, this is just a ferry. Just like the Staten Island Ferry. You ride that all the time!”  
  
“Big difference between the two,” short gasps in through his mouth, Sam working on a sizable hyperventilating, his skin melting to slight green, “that’s basically a tank. Can’t feel the water. This is like riding in a paper cup.” To illustrate his point, the ferry bounced in the wake of another boat. “Oh, shit.”  
  
“Here, Sam, look at me.” With tenderness, Frodo moved their foreheads to touching. “Focus on me instead of the water. On me, Sam.”  
  
“Don’t like boats, Frodo, always hated boats.”  
  
“Kinda’ hard not to like water living upstate, what with all the lakes and everything.” Frodo had kept the conversation going, fingers stroking sweaty cheek, a calm and assured focal point. “Spent most of my childhood on those lakes. Nothing to it, Sam, nothing to it.”   
  
A smile eeked out from the queasies. “So you say.”  
  
“Mmmaster’s rrright, nnnothing to it. Jjjust don’t think about the bbboat going up and down, up and dddown, and the way the deck seems to fall out fffrom under your feet, then twist you to the sssside at the same ttttime.”

And the queasies took it back. “Oh…god.”  
  
“Smeagol, be quiet!”  
  
“Yeah, on a boat like this the mmmotion’s really noticeable. And this issss calm. You should ffffeel it bounce all over the ppplace in high wwwater.”

Sam’s green bleached to white.  
  
“Shut up, Smeagol!”  
  
“When the wwwater’s high, why you just flip all over the dddeck here. Back and forth, up and ddddown. Never stststops, then left to rrrright. Up and down, ddddown and up then down and -”

“I’m – I’m – I’m -”  
  
“Smeagol, shut the fuck -”  
  
Too late. All Frodo could do was hold Sam’s head as he had leaned over the railing, giving the Sisters Bolger’s hospitality to the Chesapeake Bay.  
  
Gollum smiled with satisfaction. “Who’s the schmuck now, huh?  
  
Smith Island is not a tourist spot; no hotels to speak of, no 24-hour diner, not even a bait shop open ‘til ten. The sun goes down and so does Smith Island. Arriving too late to catch the last ferry to the Western shore, they had had nowhere to go to pass the night. Desperate to get out of the weather, the trio limped to a picnic area near the shore, flopping down at the nearest table.  
  
“Hope you don’t mind those snacks from the Institute,” Sam had dug deep into his pack, “ ‘cause that’s all we have to eat.” He handed two packages to Frodo, keeping none for himself. Go figure, not feeling very hungry tonight.  
  
“I’d give you some, Smeagol,” apology offered around a mouthful of dry cracker, “but, you don’t seem to like these things.”  
  
“Ddddon’t worry about us, Mmmaster.”

As if Sam’s opinion of their guide had somehow been previously misunderstood, that one look of unabashed contempt with a chaser of undiluted hate would have schooled even the most obtuse of observers. “We don’t.”  
  
“This won’t be too bad,” Frodo stretched out flat, easing road and Ring weary body down, “sort of like camping, I guess.”

Sam had surveyed the night’s city park chic accommodations. A simple wooden structure with a concrete floor, the roof stretched its protection out over a group of six faded green picnic tables heavily gouged with the initials of true love and good time invitations. The aroma of the Bay swelled and ebbed with the breeze coming off the water. One veteran street lamp braved the rain to shine its yellowish light down on the winding path leading to the shore. “Yeah, just like camping, without a tent, or a fire, or food.”  
  
“Or mosquitos, or chiggers, or snakes or wet under - ghost stories!” Obviously this was a rare good childhood memory. “Uncle Sar always told ghost stories when we went camping. One in particular almost made me pee in my sleeping bag.”  
  
“Sounds delightful, Frodo.”  
  
“And s’mores. God! How could I forget s’mores! You remember, right? You remember s’mores?”  
  
Sam picked at his fingernails. “Well…”  
  
“Only good if your marshmallow is black on the outside, so it oozes out the sides when you moosh it all together.” Frodo demonstrated the technique with two of his crackers. “And then the melting chocolate drips down your fingers, and tastes even better when you lick it off.” His face softened, eyes closed, savoring the last taste of remembrance. “S’mores! What I wouldn’t give! Remember, Sam, remember camping and s’mores?”  
  
While glad that Frodo had something else to fiddle with instead of the Ring around his neck, and doubly happy that the haunted look had retreated from his love’s eyes, if only for this one moment, Sam’s contribution to the camping topic sadly lacking. “Nope, never been.”  
  
That really shocked Frodo. “What, never? Not even with friends, or the boy scouts?”  
  
“No, never had the time or the money to go to the mountains. Dad certainly never had the inclination to take us. Spent my summers on the front stoop or down at Coney.”  
  
Frodo’s face fell. “Oh. Sorry, Sam.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it.” He brushed aside the misdirected sympathy. “Besides, not sure that I really like all that nature crap.” A quick stomp and the world lost another bug. “I hate spiders!”  
  
“Smeagol, you OK?”  
  
Trying mightily to hide behind a cough, Smeagol had drifted away to find sustenance and a more secluded spot to commune with delicious irony –

“We said delicious!”

\- and laugh their asses off.  
  
The rain pelted while they had gone foraging, only coming up with part of a soggy Snickers and a hot dog that didn’t taste half bad once they scraped off the coffee grounds. Returning to the pavilion, they had found pretty boy and his prick curled up under the table, backpacks as pillows, asleep in each other’s arms. A pathetic picture indeed.  
  
Pulling the last cigarette out of the pack, Gollum crumpled the box and tossed it aside. “Have to smoke twice as many of these just to get the right buzz.”  
  
This would be a long night; the rain, the chill, no entertainment either live or cable, and now no cigarettes. So they decided to keep themselves busy by imagining all the things She would do to pretty boy. Smeagol came up with the idea that had Samwise alive, paralyzed, and watching Her toy with the Ringbearer.   
  
“Oooh, that’s just too wonderful for words!”  
  
“I cccan jjjust hear him, nnnow. ‘Oh, Fffrodo, Ffffrodo! I’ll sssave you!’ Nnnnnnot!”  
  
Gollum cleared their sinuses. “Good! That’s good!”  
  
“She ccccan make at least three mmeals from Ssssamwissse!”  
  
“Stop! You’re killing -”  
  
A twig snapped out in the blackness.  
  
“Well, what do we have here?”  
  
“Looks like two bums sleeping it off under our table. Get up, come on! Get up!”  
  
Well hidden by the dark, skulking in the low bushes, they watched several men yank Master and his plaything out from under the picnic table. Too far to hear exact words, what they did catch had feared choking their throats.  
  
“The Tttreasure! They’re ttttaking the Ttttreasure!”  
  
Out of all the places on Smith Island to pass the night, the choice privately owned land with regular patrols. _Shit! All the prick’s fault!_ Technically, they had insisted on taking the ferry to Smith Island seeing it as a short cut to the mainland, and they had suggested the pavilion hoping to stay hidden and unnoticed. But, the prick had distracted them somehow, muddled up their concentration. How could anyone be expected to think clearly with the endless loop of, ‘Frodo, you OK?’, ‘Frodo, can I carry that for you?’, ‘Frodo, let’s fuck.’? _Samwise, all your fault!_  
  
The Treasure was being led away, away from them and down to the shore. They followed, careful to remain unnoticed. _Can’t let the Treasure out of our sight_. The idiots didn’t even struggle as they were unceremoniously shoved onto a boat. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_  
  
“The Ttttreasure!”  
  
“Calm down, love, calm down,” Gollum soothed as they watched the boat skim across the water towards the western shore, “no need to panic.”  
  
“Bbbut the Ttttreasure is leaving!”  
  
Scanning the beach for solutions, Gollum’s eye caught an old skiff just ripe for the stealing. “We won’t let pretty boy get away. We’ll go after the Treasure. You know how to work a boat, don’t you?”  
  
“Bbbbeen a long tttime, but yesssss.”  
  
“Good. Come with me.”  
  
They would follow, they would not be separated from the Treasure. They could not disappoint Her.

 

 

  
*****

 

  
  
  
He knew it had to be on his desk somewhere, somewhere amongst the stacks and stacks of paper that covered his desk. Somewhere amid the former living forest that he kept meaning to get to, but could never find the free time, or mental fortitude to tackle. _Must be here somewhere. Right?_

“Didn’t I email it to you last -”

“No, you didn’t,” the voice on the phone’s speaker less than chipper, “you haven’t replied to any of mine in over a week.”

_Gee, I wonder why?_ “Just give me a minute, I’m sure it’s here.”  
  
“Actually, it should be _here_ with me. Should have been here three days ago.”  
  
The phone was right, of course, the requisition should have been there three days ago. Just like the quarterly projections, expansion cost analyses and those contract compliance edits. _No, those were due three weeks ago._  
  
“I’m still waiting.”  
  
“And I’m still looking, Sir.”

“The form is elementary, routine. What I cannot fathom is your inability to master copy and paste.”  
  
“There were a few changes I wanted to suggest -” a peek at the bottom of messy stack number three, “a more equitable way to disperse -”

“Changes?” That one word sent personal effrontery soaring. “ _You_ want to suggest changes? Changes to operations that have been in place since my father was CEO? Changes to a business model that worked perfectly when your -”  
  
“Here it is!” Misplaced requisition plucked from obscurity. “I’ve got it right here!”  
  
“Well, wonders never cease.”  
  
“Now, let’s see,” a quick scan of lofty ideas margin scribbled, “like I said, just a few suggest – damn!”   
  
That one single piece of paper apparently the keystone to the entire stack, for without it, the paper tower tilted heavily to the left. Then gravity took its due course, and it toppled off the side of the desk to join other mounds of paper crowding the floor. A valiant attempt to stop the inevitable by throwing body in front, but soon his arms grew too full, and the red tape slide continued off his desk, out of his hands and onto the floor taking the contents of the right side of his desk with it - phone, pictures, the remnants of today’s lunch included.  
  
And the avalanched phone wanted to know – “What happened?” – now!  
  
“Nothing.” He began to unearth the phone when he realized the requisition that started it all had slipped from his fingers and now lay on the floor with all those others that looked maddeningly the same. _Can I just start this day again, please?_  
  
“It’s one mistake after another. I sent you out there in the hopes that you could do some quality work. But, you have done nothing but disappoint and embarrass. Your brother -”  
  
Saved from another spirit crushing lecture by a head stuck around his office door.  
  
“Sorry, didn’t know you were on the phone. I’ll come back.”  
  
“No, Mablung! No, please, come in!” Interruption jumped at, literally, off the fllor and across the room, eager to grab what providence had provided. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”  
  
“Picked up two guys, no IDs, no story to tell. Vagrants probably, sleeping under a table on the island.” Report rattled off with concise, straight forward experience. “Nothing overly suspicious, but, I did put them in the tank for -”

“On the island, you said? No identification? Well, this is a matter that I will see to personally. As it’s my job. My job to handle important matters such as -” he prayed that didn’t sound as pathetically desperate as it did in his head, “Bring them in!”

No, not pathetic, but certainly odd remarked the raised eyebrow, second-in-command retreating back through the door. “OK, if you say so.”  
  
“What’s going – hello?” The phone didn’t like being ignored. “ _Hello!_ ”  
  
The voice had taken on that screech remembered from too many childhood lectures. “Got to go, Sir, patrol picked up some intruders.” The brush off dug down deep into the paper mess to find the phone and cut probable harangue short. “And I need to handle this ASAP.”  
  
“How many times must I remind you, that’s what assistants are -”  
  
_Found it!_ “Really got to go.”

“The requisition, when will you -”

Finger hovered, anxious to feel button. “Soon, I promise, real soon, now I’ve got to -”

“If only I could believe you, Faramir. Unlike your brother, you -”

“Bye!” Saved by the disconnect.

Alone again. Just a man and his utterly lost and buried, all marked up and three days late requisition.

_Am I living the dream, or what?_

It’s not that he couldn’t do the job, the familial obligations that had turned career left, a job that required a steady hand and level head, perfect for the detail oriented and financially savvy manager with solid human resource skills. That was the best part of the job, by the way, the people, who worked with and for him, for the company. A pure joy learning and discovering, all those disparate lives coalescing into – hokey corporate buzz words he knew – a cohesive unit, but one he cared for deeply. Add in an office location to die for, complex woodlands nestled and a short five minute walk to the shore, sailing the Bay’s majesty every morning. Comradery and Chesapeake, six figures and benies, reserved parking space right out front, a month’s vacay and profit sharing, who wouldn’t want this job?

In the silence, a single raised hand.

It’s not that he couldn’t, he just didn’t want to.

Anthropology, Archeology, that’s where true passions lay, not mergers and acquisitions, and the doctorates that hung on the wall bore witness to the dichotomy. History, myth and legends, to track the journey into a distant, forgotten then to gain understanding and insight into now, and perhaps peek into what could be. _The past repeating, mistakes the same. Very bad. Read that somewhere._ Deep in the bowels of the city’s ancient archives, covered in dust, aching from the chill, lost amongst room after gloom shrouded room towering with scrolls and parchment, fragile paper and pamphlets, cramped and crowded, hours without eating, days without sleep, hovering and squinting, faded ink and indecipherable text, three words, a phrase out of billions at last translated clear. A proclamation, a warning, a shopping list, didn’t matter, through unperturbed research and study, he could reach, almost touch the past, _and maybe, just maybe see why, how, what connect –_

A sigh ruffled a spreadsheet carefully redlined with improvements, current payroll by his knee, the sound bittersweet longing, those heady days of scholarly pursuit – _and no social life, as often remarked –_ suspended by a father’s demand: forget the folly in the basement, move immediately to St. Mary’s City, take up the reins of Gondor’s southern properties, and try not to bankrupt us before the rightful head returns.

_As the saying goes –_ Faramir lost and adrift in the corporate culture sea - _rising to the level of expectations._

Not that anything he did, small or stupendously ill-conceived, could actually grind to a halt the well-oiled machine that was Ilithien, LLC set into motion and nurtured by the one man for whom success was innate. The one man loved by all, who never faltered, humbly proud and conscientious. The one man, sheer perfection to a father at least, whose footsteps he had spent a lifetime following, and failing miserably to keep up to.

_My big brother, Boromir._

Big brother? More like mentor, inspiration, paragon of virtue and virility, set upon a pedestal so high his awesomeness viewed mere mortals from the troposphere. Add in unapologetic favoritism and a living hell, that’s what Faramir’s life could have been, underwritten with shame and resentment, had his older brother been the pissy kind that spent every waking moment living for the perverse thrill of rubbing the face of the ill-favored sibling in his glory and status. But, it wasn’t. Not a single moment since memories clear the fog, especially since mother died, did he ever feel inadequate, inferior or any less of a person in his brother’s eyes.

_Love,_ that was what wrapped Faramir up tight, Boromir’s love. _And acceptance._  Love and acceptance no matter what their – _and joy._ Love, acceptance, and joy just being around each – _and a little awe. Baffling why HE would look up to ME, though –_ love, acceptance, joy and awe, Boromir’s gifts to his little brother.

_If only Father could…I try so hard…_

Growing up, Faramir had idolized his brother – _incorrect use of the past tense there -_ tagged along behind and Boromir would never grouse, never complain, only tussle his strawberry blonde head – _I even liked that -_ in that timeless older brother move and invite Faramir to the next place on his dizzying social calendar. One of Faramir’s fondest memories - _a simple smile beamed from across the football field as I sat in the stands studying calculus._ A throw-away gesture for sure, but Faramir’s heart had swelled with love for Boromir when, after a gruesome tackle, he had sprung up, stained with grass and spit, to acknowledge that the captain of the football team knew and loved the geek sitting on the sidelines.

_Never been more proud to be a little –_ “Finally! Here it -” Rescued from messy pile oblivion, the requisition, current problem’s impetus, now dripped teriyaki chicken from Subway. “Ruined. I must start from scratch a -” _Unless…_

A childish, though intrinsically satisfying, vision – tearing the slime soggy bureaucracy into tiny bits and FedExing his arts and crafts project to Minas Tirith! – turned aside as a waste of resources, an unproductive use of time, and, as if hopper was not always at a state of over abundant readiness, even more fuel to stoke his father’s ire, the standard complaint – “Why can’t you be more like Boromir?”

_Been there, done that, had the T-shirt printed._

Presented it on Father’s Day, figuring Denethor, dad, could wear it and just point to the message thus preserving both time and breath when – not if – Faramir screwed up next.

_He was not amused._

But, Boromir? Loved it, couldn’t stop laughing. Actually went out and got one for himself, wearing it with panache at that year’s family reunion.

_Only his said, ‘Wish I was more like Faramir.’_

He was always doing those simple acts of kindness to show that Father’s views were not his own - showing up at each and every Quiz Bowl competition in high school, attending both Master’s thesis and doctoral dissertation presentations when Father had used business as an excuse for not attending, doting older brother constantly running interference for bookish younger, confronting the accusations, brushing aside the comparisons, standing firm against a father’s inexplicable substandard quality labels.

_Fell on deaf ears, and a cold…_

And away at college, and grad school, William and Mary to Harvard, the connection remained strong. As adults, with separate careers, living apart, they still talked every day, whether time was stingy enough for only short pleasantries, or feeling a bit more generous with hours long conversations, didn’t matter, they were family, _brothers_ , determined to swim against, and defeat, the rip tide of real life. Even when business required travel, Boromir would be off and homebody Faramir’s inbox and IPhone would nearly crash under the pixel weight of all the messages and pictures sent from the far flung places of this world – Boromir and the Eiffel Tower, Boromir at Machu Pichu, Boromir on The Great Wall – so many Faramir’s the one who experienced jet lag. Going on a two decade ritual that abruptly ended two weeks ago.

_What happened? How did he – where was he – who is – why is my brother dead?_

Fished out of the East River, the “floater” snagged by strong currents and spotted face down by the crew of a commercial tanker, COD multiple GSW’s, TOD two-three days, positive ID – Boromir Steward – no motive, no suspects, any info please contact the NYPD.

_Brutally murdered, then dumped like garbage. Not without a fight, he never would have – caught by surprise, then, mugged, ambushed, more than one, had to be to take out my – perhaps many assailants, too many for him – what were they – what did he -_

Pulled up on his phone, fuzzy around the edges, focus smeared a bit, selfie taken in haste – Boromir standing in front of a beat up, broken down brown Suburban, bemused expression for those that milled about – an old man, a scruffy dude, and a couple of short guys – the caption ‘I ♥ NY?’ – the last picture received.

_To Rivendell, for a meeting, that’s all. Father insisted, demanded he – know the purpose, the urgency of his attendance, a matter serious and grave, could that be the reason he -_

“Here they are, sir,” Mablung ‘escorted’ the problems through the office door.

_Damn. Not now, not ready for -_

“Maybe they’ll be more talkative with you.”

_Well, I did rather insist on handling this._ “Thank you.” _And what’s that saying? Fake it ‘til you make it?_ “See that we’re not disturbed.” Up off the floor, a not truly felt stately walk back to his desk, a wonky route around the spilling paper mess – _ignore it like it’s meant to be there, essential to my brilliant business plan –_ afforded the necessary time, for intruders to grasp the gravity of their situation, “Well, I hear that you two were found on private property without authorization. Trespassing is a crime,” and a sleight-of-hand swipe at eyes that chose this inopportune moment to water -  _weak, ineffectual, living up to my father’s – to hell with that! My brother is dead! Something, somebody must know where, or what or how or –_ “and I will be forced to inform law enforcement unless you…you…”

Skinny, small, big eyes, too lifeless and hollow for one so young, what are the odds, the probabilities, right here, right across the room, the something, the some _one_ , just standing there, and the other guy, too, together, just like in his hand, on his phone, side-by-side just like in the last picture from –

“ ** _You_**!”

“Alright, mister,” the chubby one pushed hollow eyes behind him, ready for a fight, “no harm, no foul. We just want to be on our way.”

“And I want some answers!”

What’s that other old adage again? Oh, yeah –

Be careful what you wish for…   
  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**The Ring Goes South**  
Chapter Thirteen

 

  
  
“Well, it’s not the Princess Royale, but it ain’t the shelter either.”  
  
A dormitory. That’s what it looked like to Frodo. Perhaps that was the cause of the off-putting feeling he sensed in the room. The threat of military school dangled too many times by exasperated relatives. That’s the reason, it’s got to be. “Nor a picnic table in the rain.”

“A stroke of luck, us landing here, right place, right time and all,” Sam checking out the room’s security, “just can’t figure out if that’s good,” no lock, “or bad.”

“Can’t tell the difference anymore.” Willies, goosebumps, heebie-jeebies, crackling up and down spine, twanging nerves taut, off-putting to unsettling.  
  
“I know, that’s – hey, there’s cable,” Sam nodded to the TV hung in the far corner, “Nice to check up on the Mets, see how they’re doing.” His pack slipped to the floor with a heavy thud. “Though considering the circumstances, who wins the pennant seems kinda trivial, ya know?”  
  
“Yeah, I do.” Why should this room and not the half a dozen or so others he’d occupied tonight, why should this utilitarian room bring on grave walking chills of dread? After all, wasn’t much to the room, architect not sorely pressed to stretch atheistic’s muse when designing the layout, or choosing color scheme, or deciding furnishings. Basics covered: one moderately sized window with white mini-blinds looking out to a closed courtyard of other moderately sized mini-blinded windows staring right back; a regular issue desk, two drawers, four legs, one metal chair, indistinguishable from the corpse grey walls; adequately equipped bathroom, white tiled and smelling like Clorox; two twin beds - “Uh, Sam?”  
  
He looked up from the TV remote. “Yeah, Frodo, what?”  
  
“What’s wrong with this picture?”  
  
They pushed the beds together.  
  
“Think I’ll take a shower. God knows I need one after all we…” the litany of travel woes and their cost on body too long, Sam too spent and mind mushy for elaboration, “well, you know.” Rummaging through his pack, Sam found clean boxers, toothpaste and brush, and those little free bottles from the hotel. “Don’t think there’s a whirlpool tub in there, but would you like to join me anyway?” A naughty grin sweetened the invitation.

“Sounds great, Sam, just what -” not the room after all, something, something bigger, someone darker, closer than before, closing in, and Frodo could not seem to find a place to put his hands. Even on Sam’s golden skin, they would not be comfortable. By his side, they twitched to be covered, in his pockets they itched to be in motion. His entire body squirmed, he could not rest, stop, let go. Aching from the burden he carried, the journey traveled, the oblivion of sleep should appeal, to lie down, Sam’s heart beating strongly nearby, his body lousy with need of the respite. The sensible thing to do right now, take advantage of what had been offered. Not in a sensible frame of mind, it would seem. Although his rational mind told him otherwise, the walls began to tilt in from the top down, like he stood inside a Chinese food to-go box, the walls clamping down over on his head trapping him in with the sesame chicken. A nervous panic slithered under his skin and the last place he wanted to be was here. The more he tried to fight the unease, the more it suffused throughout his body. He could not stay in this room, not one second longer. He bolted for the door. “Going to take a walk.”

Not libido’s anticipated response. “What? Now?”

“Yeah, now.” Now, _now_!  
  
“Then I’ll come with you,” Sam dropped his things on the now double bed, “shower can wait.”  
  
“No, I just need to get out, y’a know, walk, clear my head, think a little.” The doorknob twisted back and forth in his sweaty palm. “You take your shower. Just need a little alone time.”

“You sure that’s a good -”

“I’ll be fine.” Leg jumped to a ragged rhythm. “Won’t be gone long, thirty minutes tops.” Breaths sucked in through his nose rapidly exhaled back out a dry mouth. “You take your shower and I’ll be back before you know it. Just need some time, that’s all, OK, Sam? Some time.”  
  
Frodo’s light tone not convincing enough. Leaving his things scattered, Sam hurried to the door, gathering Frodo in his arms. The body jerked beneath his strong hug, both now end of noose stuttering. “You don’t look so good, Frodo, maybe I should come with. Or better yet, you lie down.”  
  
Perspiration trickled between shoulder blades, and he fought the hysterical giggle burgeoning in his throat. “No, Sam, take your shower. I’ll be fine, really.” Fists clenched, then relaxed. Clenched…relaxed, mind sorting, sifting, screaming through all the information stored there – essential, trivial, past, present, good, bad, worse, horrifying - within seconds. “Need to do this, OK, Sam? Alone time. _Me_ time.”  
  
He leaned in to kiss forehead, “Don’t look like you ought to be –“

Forehead turned aside. “I can take care of myself, dammit! I’m not a child!”  
  
“Didn’t mean to infer that.”  
  
“Imply, Sam,” snotty tone corrected, “you implied, I inferred. Get it right.”  
  
“OK, Frodo,” tone even and mannered, though tinged with miffed just the same at the superiority slap at his grammar misstep, “I didn’t mean to IMPLY you could not fend for yourself. I merely meant that you seem to be upset about something and I wanted to -”  
  
“I’m not upset and I don’t need your help!” Eyes salt stung and blurry. “All I need is to be left alone and not smothered all the time.”  
  
“You had a big shock today what with Faramir being Boromir’s brother and all. And considering what happened the last time you saw Bor -”  
  
“I’m **_fine_**!” Anger bottle at last uncorked. “Boromir’s brother. Big fucking deal!” Body on fire, engulfed, consumed. “I can handle it, Sam. I’m good!”   
  
“Just worried about you,” fingertips brushed along cheek, “you know -”

And fingertips were swatted away. “Don’t touch me!”

“What the hell is wrong -”

“FUCK OFF!”

Frodo on the outside of the slamming door.

_I can handle it! I can! So what? They’re brothers, doesn’t matter, doesn’t change anything. It’s all good, in fact, it’s all great ‘cause now we’re on the mainland without springing for a ferry ticket. Thanks for the free ride, wankers! And the room and food and couldn’t care less whose hosting, whose bottom line takes a hit. So fucking what if Faramir is -_

The corridors ticked by, his direction aimless as Frodo sought to out-distance the inexplicable, understood, terror trailing him. The voice murmured low and sweet, the Ring plopped heavily to his breastbone. Nerves cried out for a cigarette, but all his packs had mysteriously vanished. His nails became a poor substitute.  
  
_Faramir. We are here with Faramir. Taken in by Faramir. Protected by Faramir. Boromir’s brother. Boromir dead. Fucking shot and tossed in the river. That’s what he told me, what Faramir told us. Unfuckingbelievable. But, why would he lie, lie about something as fucked up as that, give me one goddamn reason why he would – so, it’s the truth. Boromir is dead. Alive when I – when he – now dead. Alive like everyone else, The Fellowship, left them in the city just like Boromir, are they missing, too? Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli? Could they be - Merry and Pippin? Just like Boromir, missing and presumed -_  
  
Dry heaves forced Frodo to stop, leaning against the concrete wall, the fear and guilt collecting in his gut.  
  
_My friends! They could be dead, dead just like Boromir, and it would be all my fault. Only on this fucking joke of a quest because of me. Christ, Merry and Pippin dead? What happened, shit! What is - Boromir dead, then everybody else could be dead, too. Everybody else gone. Only me left. Left alone. Me and Sam left to carry - SAM!_  
  
Sliding down to the floor, his stomach still full of tap-dancing butterflies, bowels gurgling, Frodo closed his eyes and listened to the song. Loud and clear, Sam’s music caressed.  
  
_Oh, Christ! Fuck off? I told him to fuck off! Insulted him, shoved him and then said fuck off, where the fuck did that come - god, Baggins, what kind of an ungrateful shit are you? Fuck off!  If he did, if he wasn’t here with me I’d be – dead, that’s right, dead, dead several times over, and that would put an end to this little - me dead, just like Boromir, just like Gandalf, just like everybody - dead and only Sam would be left. What would happen then, huh, you little shit! What would happen to the – say I’m sorry, beg forgiveness, which he will grant, of course, saying to forget it, that it wasn’t nothing, that there’s no need to - but, I’ll do it anyway, apologize and tell him I need him, need him to help me, help me survive this fucking - need you Sam, I love you, Sam, I apologize, Sam. Oh, Christ, Sam, it’s just us now. The rest gone. Dead. Dead just like Boromir._  
  
A small whirring above tickled Frodo’s attention. The security camera mounted on the ceiling lazily swept the corridor, the red light a bright dot against the white of the wall.  
  
_Like in that movie, “What are you doing, Dave?” yeah, just like – Hal saw everything. That camera sees everything, all up and down, from all directions, sees everything, like my crybaby wallowing on the floor, like I’m not in my room as ordered, like this could be a restricted – wonder who can see, wonder who’s watching, watching me,  by myself, no one else around, alone, I’m all – they’re brothers Boromir’s dead, but not Faramir._  
  
On the move again, demons in pursuit again, glances snatched over shoulder to keep watch on the watcher as he jogged along Ilithien’s concrete. Utterly disoriented now, no idea where his mad flight from the dormitory section had lead. It all looked the same. All the walls, all the floors, all the ceilings. North, west, left, right, front, back. Same. A junction up ahead and a choice: what turn, which way, where should he - the camera sweeping in his direction. A blind dash down a nondescript hall.  
  
_Boromir’s missing, Boromir dead, but not his - lied to you, Sam, I’m a fucking liar. Still bothers me, haunts me still, head slamming into that brick wall, hands tearing at my - still feel it, him, even though the bruises have faded, the memory’s not, the pain, the humiliation, couldn’t do anything, too weak, too small.  He tried to take, take me, take the Ring, take what wasn’t - he’s missing, dead, and we’re - says he doesn’t want it, Faramir says he understands, knows all about The Ring, says he’ll help – Boromir said that, too, for my protection he pledged his - said we’re safe here at Ilithien, safe within - Faramir and Boromir are brothers. Boromir tried to steal the Ring._

_Will Faramir?_  
  
Ordinary spilled out into commonplace. Regular curved to average, the slap of frantic sneakers on plain linoleum, camera keeping track of retreating echoes.  
  
_Don’t be so fucking paranoid! Said he didn’t want It, didn’t even ask to see It, and It was right there in front - around my neck, hanging there, burning my skin, and talking, always with the talk - Faramir doesn’t want the Ring, doesn’t want to see It, wouldn’t pick It up off the side - dragging me down, pulling me deeper, covering, burying, swallowing me - doesn’t want to listen to the voice, that never-ending voice, constantly in my head, my thoughts, my dreams. Calling, whispering, promising me -_  
  
The chain chaffed at his neck, rubbed collar bone raw. No amount of fiddling could make his burden lie unnoticed.  
  
_Christ! It hurts! My head, my neck, shoulders, gets heavier, a stone, a brick, ten thousand bricks AND stones around my - Faramir wouldn’t want this, man’s not that fucking stupid, not that suicidal, Faramir doesn’t – searing right to my heart, right to my very  - the curse of carrying the Ring, the curse of the Ringbearer, the Ringbearer’s curse, no, that’s my job, I’m the - that’s what Faramir said, it was foretold, he read that somewhere - fucking crazy, right? -The Halfling standing forth to carry Isildur’s – fucking hate that Halfling crap - that’s me, Frodo Baggins, Ringbearer at your service. The Ring is mine to bear, I am the - Faramir’s smart, he understands, smart to turn away, Boromir didn’t, Boromir tried to take It  and now he’s - nobody can take The Treasure from -_

Hands scratched at his shirt, the fabric between no longer a comfort, but a hindrance, the enemy, fingers desperate for the kiss of smooth metal.

_Just thought of something. Where the hell is Smeagol? Haven’t seen him since the - oh, god, he couldn’t have skipped out on me. He swore, swore on the Treasure, Sam, swore to get me to – if that little fucker is gone, I’ll kill - a secret way, secret and safe, the Stairs and The - can’t do this without him, sorry ‘bout that Sam, but it’s true, can’t get there without - Faramir thought it was insanity, don’t trust Smeagol, don’t take the – going in the front is any better? Like the gates are any safer than the – who should I trust, then? You? Sorry, don’t think so. Only person I can trust. Sam, Sam love, Sam’s the only one I can trust, know he wouldn’t hurt me, abandon - no other options open to me now. Got to follow Smeagol, follow him to The Stairs, to get into Mordor, to the Cracks of Doom, got to get there before I give in to the - that’s my job. I am the Ringbearer. My burden, my destiny, my –_

Skidding and sliding, squealing sneakers and pin wheeling arms, a last second choice to turn left, the hunted taking a corner much too fast, collision nearly knocking head to wall and breath from body, but all good, the right decision finally for at the end of this corridor escape beckoned.

_My life, my life fucked up and forfeit, MY life. Not yours, Faramir, so save your advice, not even yours, Sam, I carry It, me, nobody else, that’s what the lady shrink said, mine a –_

The heavy steel door rattled and banged, Frodo plowing through to the brisk of night. Sidewalk and shrubbery, designated smoking area, jeans soaked by unacknowledged after-hours sprinklers, recycle bin, solar-powered lamps, all pointing to, leading him, corralling him to a deserted parking lot, a blank pallet of white lines dotted by the artist’s stark bright, lights evenly spaced and sterile. Out of the building’s labyrinth now, rat no longer confined to the maze, Frodo pumped his legs in fury, crossing the lot with no sense, but to go, go! – there, anywhere, everywhere - October burning lungs, snotting up nose, deep bites into ears. Foolish, infantile, this race through the bitter dark, but he didn’t care.

_My task, my responsibility, and what have I accomplished thus far? Destruction and death. Gandalf, Boromir, Merry and – whine and faint and babble and let everybody do for me. Especially Sam –_

Blacktop ended and out beyond black lumpy silhouettes, peek-a-boo lights, a distant buoy bell on the bay. No pause, however, for piercing side stitch, for trembling limbs, he’s running again, back the opposite side, fleeing or chasing in equal measure, a dizzying frenzy of freedom and finality.

_No more, not a victim, not a pawn, definitely NOT a Half – there should be some perks to this fucking job and deciding where – my life, my burden, I alone must face the conse - if I want to go to Mordor by The Stairs, then goddammit, it’s the – no more the one to be rescued, the damsel in – look at me, fucking look at me! Young and strong and brilliant, resource – don’t need anyone else, don’t want any – I carry It, me, I’m calling the shots, I alone am worthy, because -_

 “I am the Ringbearer ! And – and -”

Blacktop his stage, Pegasus his audience, ascension to power large and loud.

“And the Ring is -”

_Take it, take it as your own!_

“Who’s there?” Eyes darted about the lot, from one pool of light to the next. Maybe not so alone, somebody that exited the building, someone hiding in the dark, watching…waiting…waiting to take the - “Who’s there?”  
  
_So close, so close, don’t turn away now._  
  
“Who, who are you?” Spinning loopy circles, searching for…the voice, came from just over his shoulder. But, no one there. Only the void.  
  
_Don’t you recognize me?_  
  
“Who are you?” Closer, much closer, much too close.  
  
_I am Frodo Baggins, dickweed!_  
  
“I’m Frodo Baggins.” In his head, that’s where it spoke.  
  
_No you’re not. You are the Ringbearer._  
  
“I’m Frodo Baggins!” Not the Ring. He knew that voice. This was not the Ring.  
  
_You stood right there and shouted like an idiot. ‘I am the Ringbearer!’_  
  
“I _am_ the Ringbearer.” This was all too confusing. Not the Ring, yet in his head. Not the Ring. Yet in his soul.  
  
_And I am Frodo Baggins. You, Ringbearer. Me, Frodo. See how that works?_  
  
“No, that’s not right, not right.” He paced, rubbing at his temples, trying to think, think this thing through. “I’m not going crazy, not hearing voices.”  
  
_Well, technically you are, and have been for quite some time. The Ring, remember? The Eye? Come on, you’re the Ringbearer. You should know these things._  
  
“Stop! Just stop! Let me think, OK? Just stop!”  
  
_But, why? I am really enjoying this conversation. Not every day I get to talk to one so important!_  
  
“I know who I am.” Pace and think and rub and pace and think and rub.  
  
_That’s right, you’re the Ringbearer._  
  
“I am Frodo Baggins. That’s my name, Frodo Baggins. My mom was Primula, my dad, Drogo.” Smaller circles, smaller and smaller circles.  
  
_Hey! Same as me! Imagine that!_  
  
“But, you can’t be Frodo. I’m Frodo!”  
  
_You said you were the Ringbearer. Make up your mind, will you?_  
  
“My name is Frodo, I live in New York, Upper East Side, at The Shire, with my Uncle Bilbo above his store, Bag End. Freshman on a full ride at Columbia School of Law  -”  
  
_Mighty impressive, if I do say so myself._  
  
“Shut up. My name is Frodo, birthday September twenty-second,” he spiraled down spouting personal information to show, to prove that he knew who he was. “I’m Frodo and I don’t like strawberries and my favorite food on rainy days is grilled cheese and tomato soup.”  
  
_With lots of crackers!_  
  
“Shut up! I have a scar on my left knee from falling out of a tree when I was seven.”  
  
_And Aunt Peony was pissed as hell at me for that little stunt._  
  
“At me! She was pissed at me!” Forehead  slapped in frustration.  
  
_Aunt Peony never even met you. Why would she be pissed?_  
  
“I’m her nephew! I’m Frodo Baggins!”  
  
_No, I’m Frodo Baggins, you’re the Ringbearer. Thought we covered all that._  
  
“Shut the fuck up!” Hands tugged at hair, yanking clumps. He knew who he was. Didn’t he? “Never cheated on a test and I like those cheesy romance novels I ‘borrow’ from Uncle Bilbo’s store.”  
  
_This going to take long? ‘Cause I believe there someone waiting for me in my room._  
  
“Sam!” The circles stopped.  
  
_That’s right, it’s Sam! You know him, too?_  
  
“Just shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up!” White gasps of breath snatched away to oblivion.  
  
_He’s got to be worried that I’ve been away for so long. So worried that he’ll crush me in his arms, covering me with his hot mouth, his hands squeezing my ass -_  
  
“You leave him alone, you fucker!” He threatened emptiness.  
  
_The problem with that is Sam won’t leave Frodo alone._  
  
“I am Frodo!” His shriek pathetic. “I am Frodo!” Do I really know?  
  
_But, you said you were the Ringbearer. You took charge, took command. Are you the Ringbearer, love?_  
  
“I am the Ringbearer.” Mind frayed, string snapped, a heap on the asphalt.  
  
_And I am Frodo Baggins. You take the Treasure and I’ll take Sam._  
  
“No, no, nnnno! I am Frodo Baggins and The Ringbearer! I am bbbboth!”   
  
“Can you be both? Remain Frodo and carry the Ring? Listen to the voice day after day, and not give in to temptation? Can you hold the Ring next to your heart and not lose sight of Its evil? In the end, can you summon the courage to toss It into the fire as It sings to you Its promises?”.  
  
“I wwwill destroy the Ttttreasure!” He wailed to the starlight. “I mmust!”  
  
“Islidur failed. Smeagol failed. Even Bilbo in his way failed. The Ring took them all. What makes you think you’re special? What makes you think you’ll be the one to succeed?”  
  
“I must!”  
  
“What makes you think YOU will win against the shadow, against… _me_?”  
  
“Bbbecause I…”  
  
“Come, spit it out, love!”  
  
“Because I – bbbecause I -” I? Who was that? The man, the Treasure? The same. NO! “The Rrringbearer and – and -” so confusing, separate, yet together, so simple, round and round and bound as one. NO! “I am The Ringbearer and I -” merging and melding, a reflection, unique, blurred out until only – “I am – wwwe are – the Rrring is mmm -”

Music. Strong and steady and clear. The melody singular, purpose precise.

“Bbbecause I am -” music cleansed the doubt, banished the turmoil, set things up right and true “I –I am -” the music calmed, the music reminded, Sam’s music saved, “Frodo Baggins!”

The parking lot, and mind, silent.  
  


 

******

  
  
  
It doesn’t matter how fast you scramble, you cannot put a right shoe on a left foot. “Damn!” Sam threw it on the floor, bouncing out of reach. “Damn!”  
  
It doesn’t matter how fast you scramble, a shirt will not fit correctly if put on backwards. “Shit!” Tugged off, then back on, shirt turning it inside out in the process. “ _Shit_!”  
  
Half-dressed he scrambled for the door. “Fuck!” It didn’t matter how fast, the feeling of dread bored deeper. “Fuck!”

_Too late, what if I’m – please don’t let me be too late!_  
  
It had woken him up, that fear, straight out of a sound sleep. Only meant to close his eyes for a minute, waiting for Frodo to return. Rest his eyes just a second, Frodo would be back soon.  The shower warm and relaxing on nerves, however, the bed firm and supportive to sore back. A mere blink for him to succumb.

_My dream…  
_  
A good one this time, familiar, weird, but good, because Frodo was happy, smiling even as they drank tea in the garden. A big, red book lay at his feet, and Sam, taking a break from his labors, watched fascinated the wind flip page after page, margins blotched, all covered in spider scratchy Frodo script.  A storm was brewing, though, the smells unmistakable in the air and earth, tonight perfect for storytelling and apricot brandy by their cozy fire. Frodo called to come inside…and again, but entranced he watched the clouds growing darker, blacker, like a stain across the sky, the stains in Frodo’s book. The rain fell without preamble, heavy and noisy among the leaves of his plants, stinging drops, bitter cold and sharp, and still he did not seek shelter, mesmerized by the shapes, coiling and coalescing, like wheels within wheels, turning lopsided to the East. The storm attacked, vicious and unrelenting, at last drawn away from the field by Frodo’s tug that would brook no dissension, Frodo’s touch teasing the want of sooner, _now,_ Frodo’s hand with the missing fin -   
  
Frightened cry heard only by the empty room.

_How long have I been – too long, idiot, never should have fallen asleep in the –_

“Frodo?”

No answer, he had not yet returned.

No clock, or watch, or phone to give exact time, but the weight of its passage heavy in the air, on his heart.

_Where is he? Should have been back – lost probably, can’t find the way – nobody on duty in this place, no guards, janitors, nobody noticed a complete stranger walking the – if he’s still in the – left without tell – No._

That idea too ludicrous, too painful to entertain.

  _Where is he, then? Found someplace to sit, cool off, he was pretty pissed when he – pissed for no good reason – brothers, that’s a good one. Treated like criminals, also good, and we’re back on track, heading in the right direction, not very far now, way south and closer than we’ve ever been to –_

Wrong, all kinds of wrong.

_If The Ring was strong before, by the beach, New York City even, what must the voice be now that we’re –_

If he weren’t so sore, own ass would be solidly kicked.

_Protect him, keep him – can’t even recognize his struggle when it’s plain as fucking –_ this was the moment panic had set in -  _out there, alone, no one to – nothing to stop him from –_

Lightning bolt, jagging every which a-way, Sam’s fear snatched out for Frodo with concentrated bristling energy, and instantly that fear was confirmed. _Should never have let him – should have realized – fucking idiot for –_

The shadow had returned, oozing in around the edges of inattentiveness.  _Dark and menacing, the clouds in my –_ still there, only staticky, like pieces had fallen away, leaving  a checkerboard, hazy and indistinct. _No! It’s taking – taking him from me!_  Sam had tried, like running in molasses, to intervene and embrace, reach out and hold on to  - his love growing fainter, slipping away.

“Frodo! Don’t – stay – coming  - I’m – Frodo!”  
  
Without thinking things through – no plan, no map, nothing except that fear - Sam had jumped up from the dream, from the bed, snatching at his clothes. He had to find Frodo and bring him back, find Frodo and make him whole. The shoe, the shirt, the terror, the inefficacy of fighting against the dark, door yanked back and open and -  
  
“Sam?”  
  
So intent on Frodo, he just about knocked Frodo down. “Jesus Christ!”  
  
They melted together, both shaking with relief.

“Well, you’re back now, Mr. Baggins,” a uniformed officer, white tree design stitched on blazer pocket, at parade rest in the hallway, “so I’ll say goodnight.”

“Thank you again, Sergeant,” appreciation sent from their hug, over Sam’s shoulder grateful and sincere, “for showing me the way.”

A tip of an imaginary hat. “My pleasure, sir.”

Hands reluctant to release, their embrace still had an eternity to go, Sam’s foot stepped up to take charge of the mundane things, like closing the door on the hallway, like shutting out the rest of the world.  
  
“Had me crazy fucking worried, Frodo, what were you -”

“Walking, like I said, only I got a little lost and ended up out -” head shake dismissed the subject, “doesn’t matter. I’m here.”

“Are you OK?” A gentle push out to arm’s length, Sam took a visual inventory paying close attention to wind gnawned cheeks, frost blue lips and eyes sunken deeper still. “You’re freezing! Where the fuck did you -”

“No, please, no more,” exhaustion near about slipping from Sam’s grasp, “no more questions, no explanations. Just sleep. Sleep with you.”

“Now you’re talking,” though he would be, perhaps tomorrow for sure, about that other topic, the one laid aside, the one Frodo avoided, Sam would learn the specifics, intimate details of the damage  done, the line almost crossed, because of his failure. Right now, though, “Bed,” and he steered ragdoll Frodo in that direction.

“Just let me get an extra blanket,” he spoke while doing, “warm you right up. You want coffee or hot chocolate or maybe hot tea?” Returning from the bathroom storage closet jiffy fast, “found a maker in there, too, if you -”  
  
Up underneath the covers in the middle of one of the twins, Frodo lay sleeping.  
  
“That’s a no to the drink, then.”  
  
Tenderly, Sam tucked the extra blanket in and around, then stripped down to boxers before climbing in next to, intent on securing a good night’s sleep for his love. _Not like in the hotel, not like last ni –aaaaaa!_ When he’d had the time to undress Sam couldn’t figure, but Frodo’s bone chilled naked flesh chased any thoughts, or capabilities, of sex away.

“Love you, Sam.”

“Love you, too. Go to sleep.”

Couldn’t help it, though. This near, this close _– could have, almost lost you –_ he had to touch, and hand strayed to crazy curls. “You need a haircut.”  
  
Shifting, Frodo brought body further into Sam’s curve. “And so do you.”  
  
“A haircut and a shave.”  
  
“No, don’t, I like it.” He scratched at three day stubble. “Don’t shave, Sam.”  
  
“It’ll be you who faces the consequences, love,” and he neck nuzzled a preview.  
  
Frodo’s sleep-mumbles breezed across Sam’s arm. “Willing to take the risk. Night, Sam.”  
  
“Night.”  
  
“Sam?”  
  
Almost to the blissful blank bottom, eyes staggered blinked open. “Here – I’m  - I’m awake.”  
  
“Say my name.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Just say my name. Please?”

Oh, good, not required to get up, move, think on any coherent level. “Frodo. Frodo Baggins.”  
  
“Again.”  
  
“Frodo.” Stay right here in their circle, warm and quiet and, momentarily, safe. “Your name is Frodo Baggins, and why am I saying this?”  
  
“Just wanted to hear you say it.” He snuggled deeper. “My name is Frodo Baggins. Sam’s Frodo.”

That’s right. “You’re my Frodo.”  
  
Sam slept deep, dreamless, holding secure his love…Frodo Baggins?  
  


 


	14. Chapter 14

**The Ring Goes South  
** Chapter Fourteen  
  
  
  
“Run that one by me again?”  
  
Pippin took a bite from the chunk of cheese before answering. “No women. Didn’t you notice that? There are no female Ents, ‘cause they lost them all.”  
  
Merry playfully slapped his friend on the back of the head. “You lose socks in the dryer, Pip, not people.”  
  
“I’m just telling you what I heard. The other Ents were talking about how sad it was that their number was dwindling,” a pause for some mutually agreed upon sweet tea - height exactly even at 5’9”, pact and promise had tucked Treebeard’s miracle brew under the kitchen sink for good -“and how the only way that trend could be reversed was with Ent babies, and how that wasn’t possible ‘cause the Ent wives moved away to do their own thing and now are lost.”  
  
“Why can’t they just get on EHarmony or Match like every other lonely and desperate?”  
  
“Something special about those Ent wives, maybe it’s a like an genetic thing, I don’t know. But, Ent babies can only come from Ents doing it with Ent wives.” Now Pippin attacked the pound cake packed in their picnic lunch,  yellow crumblies falling about for the ants. “Told Treebeard that we’d keep a lookout for them, though. Just in case we spot one.”  
  
Merry raised an eyebrow. “And what do these Ent wives look like?”  
  
“I figure like the other Ents, only rounder in the right places.”  
  
“I’ll keep my eyes open for incredibly tall, plaid-flannel wearing, living-in-trees-people with big breasts.” Merry laid back on the blanket, chuckling. “They shouldn’t be too hard to spot in a crowd.”  
  
“Treebeard would really appreciate it, Merry.”  
  
With eyes partly closed, Merry listened to the life of the woods, the gentle sway of the branches as the wind tugged at their leafy offspring. The afternoon warm, their agendas frustratingly empty, the two had stolen away to share lunch before the Ent’s meeting resumed. “So, what else? What other bits of information did you gather. Got to have heard something worthwhile.”  
  
“No, not really. That’s it.”  
  
Eyes snapped open. “You heard all of that, about Ents with boobs and their mating rituals, but nothing that was said at the meeting?”  
  
Pippin blushed a little. “Got sleepy listening to them argue over words. ‘Fraid I took a nap.” Then added quickly in his defense. “But, it’s your fault!”  
  
“My fault? How is it my fault?”  
  
“Tired me out last night, that’s how comes.” A piece of bread hit Merry in the head. “You should know by now, it you want a wide awake Pippin, you must give him at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.”  
  
“Only did what you wanted.” A grape flew in Pippin’s direction. “And you kept saying it over and over and over. ‘Fuck me.’”  
  
“Thought you’d never ask!” Pippin landed on Merry spread eagle, attaching his mouth to luscious throat, sucking and purring. “Always wanted to do it out in the wild!”  
  
Body thrilled, rapidly rising, hard, but, “this is not the time or the plaaaaace -” tongue licked his ear - “this lunch break will end soon and I want to to to -” hand slid under shirt - “be there when they - shit, Pip!” Teeth suckled nipple. “Talk about Saruman.”  
  
“Webdnbfrtht.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Lifting his head up from Merry’s belly, unintelligible translated, “We’ll be done way before that.” To prove his point, Pippin opened Merry’s jeans and held his full erection quick as lightning. “It’s true what they say about fresh mountain air! Things do grow bigger up here!”  
  
“Pip, please! We don’t have - fuck it.” Head thudded back down, woodsy outdoor assignation resigned when mouth took him in. “Do what you will.” There was a giggle in there somewhere.  
  
With one hand at the root, cock was encircled, Pippin’s tongue drawing up the underside, a stop at the head to suck, then down again to the front, a round trip travelled multiple times. Now a few feather strokes to ease back from the edge, the stall appreciated with a sigh.

“If we miss anything important -”

“Don’t worry,” tongue returned to the spit slick slit, sucking harder, teeth barely into the tender flesh, Merry’s hips up off the blanket going where pleasure led, “I won’t.”

Stroking resumed, Pippin shoved his way between Merry’s legs, pushing them apart, farther still, diving down deep to reach what ached to be –

“Oh, fuck!” Straight up when a mouth full of his balls sneezed. “Fuck, Pip!”  
  
The grin sheepishly unrepentant. “Sorry, Merry. Hair tickled my nose.”  
  
“Come here, you.” The grab deftly evaded. “Come _here_ , Pippin.”  
  
“No, I’m not done. Want to hear you scream.”  
  
“Then what am I supposed to do?”  
  
“Uh, lie back and enjoy it?”  
  
“But, I want to touch you, too!”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Pippin went to work on his jeans. “If you’re going to be a baby about this.” He tossed them aside and then in one quick motion, divested Merry of his. “Always got to do things your way.”  
  
“Pip, just what the hell are you -”  
  
“Giving in to your demands, that’s what.” Plopped down in the opposite direction, head to feet and vice versa, from the position on his side, he prompted Merry to a mirror him with a tug. “Will this do, Mr. Brandybuck?”  
  
Right before his eyes, Pippin’s erection danced, red, throbbing and wet. “Oh, yes, Mr. Took, this will do nicely.”  
  
Coaxing Merry’s knee to bend up, opened up delight, easy access. “Then stop talking and start sucking.”  
  
Ever mindful of fading bruises, Merry opened the back of this throat and pulled Pippin into his mouth.  
  
Here he thought they had done it all - standing, sitting, bending, kneeling, even Missionary once. But, _this_ position, his cock in Pippin’s mouth being licked, and nibbling in reciprocation - _Christ! How could we have missed this!_ Incredible the sensation when lovers began to match lick for lick, stroke for stroke. They shared the intimacy as one. And the sight! Pippin’s cheeks bulging, those green eyes glassy when Merry tickled right behind balls, the muscles of thighs and belly shaking from the strain of holding back.   
  
_This is so fucking awesome!_ The sight incredible, the sensations indescribable, rivaled only by blindfold, handcuffs, and body writhing beneath, as every inch of exposed flesh violated. No, _that_ time was one for the record books, unparalleled and singular, happened because of a cheesy Halloween costume, and even the neighbors three doors down complained about the noise, and Merry had felt drained for days. Pippin tied down and helpless was the best, but this came in a close second. _Got to remember this. Probably even better if a pine cone wasn’t sticking me in the - have to try this at home. Right after I tie him down again. And the shower, I fucking love the - fire escape where he can yell and scream and not be heard over the sounds of the - kitchen counter’s good, too, and the couch, the foyer, and, ooooh, the dryer, love those vibrations! So hard to choose. But, I don’t need to really, do I? When we get home, we can do them all, one right after the other. When we get home, we’ll have all the time -_  
  
“Merry?” 6 had lost his 9. “Merry, what’s wrong?” No answer brought Pippin to scrutch around, twisting up blanket, kicking basket, shifting forest floor, until face to face with Merry. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it?”  
  
“Fucking fantastic!” _Don’t ruin this moment, don’t lose this moment. Won’t be many more._ “Just thinking, that’s all.”  
  
Aligning their bodies just right, so hip met hip, erection pressed erection, Pippin’s head resting on Merry’s shoulder. “Things will work out, I know it. The Ents will say yes, we’ll all go take care of Saruman and this whole shitty mess will be over and done with. Trust me.”  
  
Merry kissed a head full of sweaty, unruly curls. _He really needs a haircut._ “Just like that? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”  
  
“Well, don’t know about the ma’am part, a little misplaced considering,” spitty cock flicked as evidence, “but, The Ents will march against Isengard because it is the right thing to do. Saruman will be defeated because good always wins. Frodo will destroy the Ring, and he and Sam will return. Then the world goes back the way it was. It just has to.”  
  
This blind faith was astounding even for Pippin. “And why is this all going to happen,? Why do the good guys HAVE to win?”  
  
Pippin up on elbow, heart on his sleeve. “Because, Merry, because evil does nothing but destroy and consume, and  this world wants to go on living and growing. Evil never nurtures or creates, and this world wants to burst forth with new life every second. Evil harbors hate and despair, and this world embraces love and hope. Can’t you feel it around you? In the trees, the water, the air? This world wants to continue to bloom and flourish. It would never let evil win.”  
  
And, boy, though destined to be crushed, could that heart turn a phrase. “Since when did you become a philosopher?”  
  
A shrug, his head returning to Merry’s shoulder. “That’s what happens when you leave me alone too long. I start to get all deep and shit.”  
  
Open mouth ready with the obvious response: _‘Well, I’ll never let that happen again, Pip, never leave you alone again.’_ He shut it, jaws snapping together. He couldn’t say those words because it wouldn’t be true. Go to smartass instead. “So, tell me, Socrates, during all that down time, did you figure out the meaning of life?”  
  
Pippin traced the plaid of the blanket with his finger. “That one’s simple.”  
  
“Pray tell, enlighten me, oh wise one! What is the meaning of life?”  
  
“To love you.”  
  
“Oh, Pip…”  
  
“Merry!” A great rustling through the woods brought the startled back to reality sit up, on top dislodged and rolling to the side. “Pippin!”  
  
“Shit! Treebeard!”  
  
Too far to catch a glimpse, too close to disregard, the Ent seconds away from picnic crashing. “Where’d you two sneak off to?”  
  
If Treebeard had come looking for them then the Entmoot would be starting again, and starting again could mean the answer he’d been waiting for, and he did not want to miss a second of the discussion.  He had to be ready, he had to be prepared, he had to be dressed. “Pip, my jeans!” The being found naked did figure somewhat into his urgency, too. “My jeans!”  
  
Movement , there’s movement through the woods. “Merry! At least give me a holler so I know I’m going in the right direction!”  
  
“Over here, Treebeard!” The shout from behind the huge fallen log chosen as the perfect lunchtime hideaway bounced from birch to beech. “Over here!” The harsh hiss for recalcitrant lover only. “Pip, give me my fucking jeans!”  
  
Green eyes wicked only for good, jeans and boxers, both sets, went flying over shoulder, far from anyone’s reach.  
  
“Holler again, Merry, please!”  
  
“OVER HERE, TREEBEARD! Pippin, what the fuck are you - RIGHT OVER HERE!”

“As my Nana Banks always said, a half finished bridge means you’re walking home with wet shoes.”

Rustling closer, faster, delicto’s in flagrante discovery imminent. “What – what the fuck does that even -” and then Pippin translated once again. “Oh – oh, no, shit, don’t you -”  
  
Branches parted and - “There you are! Thought you guys might have gone and gotten lost, or something.” Treebeard all big tooth smiles as he walked toward the –

“NO! Don’t come any closer!”

Now teeth grew concerned. “Is something wrong?”  
  
“Everything’s fine,” actually the opposite, “Don’t worry. But, Pippin is -”  
  
“He’s hurt, injured? I’ll go get -”

“Not injured, no, he’s just, uh…” Yeah, not the time for truth telling. “Pippin is -” he pressed finger to lips, lowering voice to a stage whisper. “- taking a nap. Don’t want to disturb him. So, shshshshsh!”

“Oh, sorry!” From a few paces away, Treebeard stopped. “He does need his – if our talking will bother him, why don’t you come over here?”

“Love to, Treebeard, would, love, love, love that! But, I mean, I kinda’, ya’ know, kinda’ got a cramp in my, foot, oh, leg, hmm, thigh. Just need to sit here and let it work itself out.” A casual, whatever lean across the log. “So what’s new?”  
  
A stump, broad and flat, roots gnarled out in former glory, the perfect place for Treebeard’s news to take a rest. “Well, that’s why I wanted to find you, give you an update.”  
  
“Tell me it’s good, good, so _good,_ news.”  
  
“Well, finally got through all the old business, and -”  
  
“Hmm hmm?” Half-lidded eyes listened with a part of an ear. “Old business, yeah?”  
  
“And we started to tackle the new stuff. Ya know, like them adding in a primitive camping section over at the state park in Altoona, and the danger of more people not dousing their fires completely.”  
  
“Oh, that’s so fucking good!”  
  
“Beg your pardon?”  
  
“Fucking good that you Ents are on the ball with that campfires thing.” Bullshitting through clenched teeth. “What else?”   
  
“And how the drought this past spring and the damming of the river has set back new growth at least a year, you sure you’re OK, Merry? All flushed and red, thinking heatstroke, maybe or some kind of allergic re -”  
  
A quick swipe of the back of his hand rid upper lip of pooling sweat. “No, no, just had salsa with lunch. Jalapenos. What next?”  
  
“Well, mention of the river seemed the perfect opportunity to bring up Saruman, since it was he that did the damming in the first place.”  
  
“Damn, damn, damn.”  
  
“Yes, the Dam! “ A lead forward on dust crusted knees, excitement reaching out to ensnare his listener. “I brought up Saruman’s name, presented the digital shots we took, the fly-over footage, and you should have seen it!”

Fallen tree bark dug fingernails. “Wish I – I – I -”

“The dismay and anger at the carless disregard, The White Hand’s mindless destruction, everybody shouting at once, it was glorious! Wonder you didn’t hear us, voices so loud must’ve scared every fawn and kit from here down to -”

“Busy with, uh, lunch and – Pippin!” Head/log, forehead knocking once…twice. “Anger, shouting, scared Bambi, and then?”  
  
“Well, before things went south for the winter, Quickbeam, he’s the acting chair for this season, remember?”

“Uhm hmmmmmmmmmm.”

“Quickbeam called for a vote.”  
  
“And…?”

“And…” the drumroll was implied, “almost unanimously yes!”

“You mean yes yes?”  
  
“All except that guy from the southern region who minds the olive groves. He said we should mind our own business. But, that made the vote fifty-four to one.” Arms raised in victory. “The answer is yes!”  
  
“Yes,” Merry repeated, “yes,” and again, “yes,” and again, “ _yes_ ,” like he couldn’t get enough of the word, “yes, yes, yes,” head flung back, Merry embued with the raw essence of, “YES!”

“The Ents will march on Saruman!”  
  
Helium shut off, the high flying Merry fell lifeless to the log. “Then it’s all over?”  
  
Sweet smile dabbing at mouth’s corners with a napkin, Pippin popped into view. “It appears that way.”  
  
“Oh, sorry, Pippin, guess I was too loud,” Treebeard’s enthusiasm guilt riddled, “woke you up.”  
  
“No, no, that’s fine, and that is certainly the best news! A wonderful climax to the whole story,” a nudge to the still deflated, “wouldn’t you say so, Merry?”  
  
“Wonderful climax, Pip.”  
  
“Yes, yes, yes. For things to have come out so beautifully when in the beginning everything seemed to suck.”  
  
“We get your point, Pippin.”  
  
“Why, with the Ents in the battle against Saruman, I’m sure we’ll lick him soundly, taking a bite of the Dark Lord’s plans.”  
  
The punch hit square in the stomach. “That’s enough!” A moment to reclaim calm, gather in the shredded bits of his dignity. “When do we leave?”  
  
“ASAP, so you best come along now. Got lots of plans and packing.” Treebeard up and ready to go. “Could use your help, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Would be our pleasure, Treebeard. Anything for the cause.”  
  
“So, now that Pippin’s awake, why don’t I just help you clean up here, and then we can -”  
  
“No, no!” Panic stopped Treebeard’s offer cold. “We made the mess.”  
  
“Well, actually, _you_ made the mess, Merry, I just -” on the receiving end of another punch for that one.  
  
“OUR mess, OUR clean-up job.” Pronoun emphasis came with a pointed stare. “Don’t worry, Treebeard, won’t take us long.”  
  
Forest steward hesitated. “Don’t mind, really, I can -”

“Be right there, promise. OK, bye bye now.” The brush off diametrically opposed to sincere.

“If you really thinks that’s -” Indecision vanquished by a voice from the woods calling his name. “Don’t be too long. Time is something that shouldn’t be wasted.” The cry for his attention came again. “Coming, I’m coming!” Fallen leaves rustled the hurried departure.

And Merry watched Treebeard trot away. _One…two…three….four…_

“Well, that was -”  
  
_Five!_ Pippin body slammed to the blanket. “You little shit!”

“Believe a thank you is in order for a job well -”

Gratitude was one thing not on Merry’s agenda. “Treebeard stood not fifteen feet away! Any second he could have -”

“Seen us, yes, I know. That’s what made it so…” Merry’s way less than thrilled spawned a Pippin pout. “I had fun anyway.”

“Probably thought I was fucking the – ” A resigned to what’s done sigh tugged Merry up and back on heels to survey the unrepentant below. “You could have at least warned me.”  
  
“Remind me to review the concept of surprise next time.”

Adorable, all pushed out bottom frowny lip and twig tossled hair. Sensual, lean muscle under freckled skin, the line of throat, a valley dipping to fuzzy navel, the bump and grind of hips and knees. A wit that zings, a mind that snaps, and a heart  shinning true. Irresistible , a soul that held captive Merry’s forever.

_Will I? Walk away from him? Can I?_

“As my Nana Bank always said, ‘Forgiveness is a mite bit better looking than -”

“Shut up, Pip.” Body yanked up to rest on thighs.  
  
“Merry, what -” Two fingers slicked out of butter’s tub, on the fly substitute high in fat and anxious for action his succinct answer. “But, you said, told Treebeard we would – right there! – not take long to -”

Weeping cock, hips pushing fingers in deeper, Merry’s turn for a surprise. “Oh, trust me, Pip. Won’t be long at all.  


  
In a clearing just south of the county road, gathered around the truck armada destined for Isengard, an army paused their provisioning to listen, nodding with reverence, as shouts of “yes, Yes, YES _YES_ **_YES_**!” sung hope through the forest green.

A sign surely of trees’ blessing for the Ents going to war.

 

 

*****

 

  
  
Grima scuttled away to hide behind the chair.  
  
“You imbecile!”  
  
Wincing as each harsh word struck, he wondered, not for the first time, about career choices.

_What the hell was I thinking, coming back here, to this? Did what was asked of me, everything and then some, and my compensation? What I was promised, WHO I was promised?_

He twisted away, but the kick still landed smart.

“Worthless! Useless!”

_No, only abuse and humiliation._

“Addlepated dunce!”

_Should have just walked away after Theoden – the ungrateful bastard – should have found another – got marketable skills, accountants are always in demand. Yeah, I could do some networking, update my Linkedin, hell, yes, I can secure another position, one with –_

 “Surrounded by fools!”

_\- out the dickhead boss and crazy hours and questionable ethics. A job where I’m appreciated, my contributions valued. Work in a nice, normal office, with a window and a water cooler, company picnics and brown bag lunches. Ride the bus, two bedroom bungalow, laundry and mow the lawn on weekends, save for retirement, pay taxes and – who the hell am I kidding? Me, a cube farm drone? That’s not life, one of the little people, no pull, no power, counting the one percent’s money while staying forever in the lower ninety-nine, sacrificing, compromising, playing good grunt to rigged rules, marking time until death? That’s for losers! Don’t want to wait, that’s for sheep, but not me, not going to wait. Want more, need more, I deserve more! Now!_

_And so what if now means swallowing all the bullshit from his “greatness” there. If it sweeps me along, to glory, to my due, to **her**_ –

“Why didn’t you tell me of this before?”  
  
“You seemed upset enough as it was about that other Ring. Why would I bring one more to your attention?”  
  
“Do you know what that ring signifies?” Saruman’s threat obvious, “do you know the one who wears it?”  
  
“Sure. Aragorn, the one all in the leather, he wore the snake ring.”  
  
“Like this?”  
  
“Whoa!” Grima pulled back to clear vision range from the book shoved in his face. _Always so dramatic, like some B movie villain._  “OK, yeah, I think -” two snakes, each chewing on the other’s tail, “- 0nly can’t be sure about the color of the snake’s eyes, ‘cause this is in black and white and -”  
  
“Isildur’s heir!” An animal growl heaved that book across the room. “Isildur’s heir has returned!”  
  
The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Isildur?”  
  
And now the animal paced. “Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand. Isildur claimed the Ring for his own. Isildur died when the Ring abandoned him.”  
  
“So, let me get this straight,” a cease fire it seemed, insulter-in-chief distracted by his history lesson,  Grima venturing out from his safe spot behind the wingbacked chair, “Isildur took the Ring, lost the Ring, died because of the Ring? Wasn’t that, what thousands of years ago? And Aragorn’s his son? Geez, he didn’t look that old.”  
  
Paced frantic, desperate. “The heir to Gondor returning to take his rightful place would bolster their defense, rally the troops’ morale, give them hope of a possible victory over Sauron.”  
  
“I didn’t think Sauron could be defeated.”  
  
As if caught and caged. “Without possession of his Ring even Sauron is vulnerable to the hope of men.”  
  
“That’s the Ring you lost, right? The Ring you tried to grab without Sauron’s knowing?” Just in case he forgot.  
  
Saruman snapped to attention, expression looking to do some neck snapping of its own. “Thank you for reminding me, Grima.”  
  
_Wrong move! Don’t want his anger aimed at me again. Time to do a little sucking up._ “Who cares about Aragorn? Gondor is weak, you said so yourself. And with Rohan out of the picture -”  
  
A smile slithered into place. “Yes, you are absolutely correct, Grima. Gondor IS weak, and Sauron nips at their heels daily. Rohan will cease to exist after tonight. The reappearance of Isildur’s heir will not hinder my plans.”  
  
_OK, this is good, back to normal. Stroke his ego, no longer a punching bag. Schmooze a bit, good graces return._ “So are you going to tell the big guy?” From the silver bowl on the mantel Grima picked two cocktail peanuts. “ About Aragorn, I mean?”

Saruman snatched the silver bowl away.

_Yes, normal, back to arrogant prick._

“Better to wait until the tale is complete.” This idea pleased him. “Yes, I shall wait until after Rohan lies crushed under the heel of the White Hand. So much better to produce a dead body, then a mere rumor and hearsay.” This idea pleased him very much. “Imagine the elation when Sauron hears of the death of Isildur’s heir!”  
  
And any kudos from the top would inevitable trickle down, from board room to middle management, Saruman, to the deserving hungry below. What filled his mind, dulled conscious, warped all decisions, that chance to sit at the war spoils table. _Staked my life on it. “_ So, what time will we be celebrating? The victory at Helm’s Deep, I mean.”  
  
“Midnight.” Arm chair general swooped back to his desk and computer, his commanders tasked with constant updates of the planned attack. “The assault begins at midnight, the walls breached at twelve-thirteen, Theoden pleading for his pathetic life at twelve thirty-seven, and my army eradicating the world of anything Rohan no later than twelve forty-six.”

“All over in less than a hour.” Regret, he had played a large part in bringing Rohan to ruin, or guilt for the deaths to come, on the redemption menu Grima chose to suck on a molar stuck peanut instead. _Too late, much too late for me._ “Tight schedule, if one thing goes south -”

“My plan will not fail.”

_‘Cause your last one worked out so well, right?_ “But -”

“All of Isengard’s resources have been employed to guarantee total success.”

_Yeah, about that._ “Was that really wise? _All,_ but a handful of troops sent over there?” Not that he didn’t mind the relief, from the banging and bulling, chaos and carnage, incessant mayhem always just a fetid burp away.   _And no drunken vomit to step around on the stairs._ In this time of uncertainty, however, of ambiguous loyalties and multifarious motivations, looking in only one direction guarantees the unsuspected’s arrival. _“_ Leaves us vulnerable, unprotected.”

Condescension teetering on the edge of irate glanced up under bushy white brow. “ _You_  are giving _me_ tactical advice?”

Squirrely under that stare, Grima slunk away – _stop that, shut up! Don’t give him a reason, don’t make him question. So close now, no more mistakes -_ choosing window seat, far out of kick’s way and anger’s throwing range, on room’s far side as a life boat to ride out the choppy seas return. “No, of course not, not my place to -”

“Your first intelligent utterance to date.”

That slap did manage to reach him, though. “But, I would have kept some orcs here, just in case.”

Derisive snort dismissed concern and creature. “You thought...laughable.”

In the corner the grandfather clock took away one of today’s few remaining minutes, the fireplace popped hissed, another log devoured, mouse clicks and finger ticks directed Rohan’s destruction. This room alive, yet all about Isengard silence held sway. _Soon, all over soon. Rohan gone, Gondor next, then nothing will stand in Sauron’s way. And no one, not brother or uncle, not even arrogant prick, will keep me from my prize._ And if he closed his eyes and listened hard, even all the way at tower’s uppermost floor cricket’s chirp might be heard. _Like on the front porch after dinner._ Curtain pulled aside, he sought lightning bugs, counting the pricks of magic in the dark. _Front porch, after dinner, every night, will be a family tradition, and then off to bed, every night, all night with Eowyn -_

“You expecting anybody?”

One minute to tomorrow, Saruman afforded Grima’s inane distraction from destiny with a monosyllable. “No.”  
  
Full moon illuminated, the empty front lawn awash with movement. “Well, somebody’s come to visit, can see -”

“Cease your prat - ”  
  
The tower rumbled, shock, an explosion down deep.

“Impossible! None would dare to –”

Gunfire, shouts, none’s ferocity streaming to the walls, an impossible invasion undeterred.  
  
_Knew it! I was right! Arrogant moron should have secured his home turf!_  
  
“Outrageous! I will not stand -”

Saruman didn’t, he hit the floor as the tower trembled once more, silver dish peanuts rolling away.

_Too bad I won’t be around long enough to gloat._


	15. Chapter 15

**The Ring Goes South  
** Chapter Fifteen

 

  
  
The taunting. Sing-songy and sweet, the sounds of victory. The voices of the winners even before the game had started.  
  
The taunting. It banged along his spine, knocked through his head, clattered against nerves. His head beat from inside, brain trying to come out his eyes.  
  
The taunting. His arms trembled with fear and exhaustion; never held an automatic weapon at the ready for so long. Never had a reason. Until now.  
  
The taunting. Headlights blazed at him, stars and shiny dots swimming. His eyes watered as he fought the urge to blink. He didn’t want to miss one second.  
  
The taunting. Fear as heavy in his mouth as the chili served for supper, tangy and harsh. His tongue swept out over dry lips, tasting uncertainty there as well.  
  
The taunting. His arms ached and his heart pounded.  
  
The taunting. The gun visibly shook now, his hand slipping on the black metal.  
  
The taunting. Louder and louder. Building and building.  
  
The taunting. Head pounding the same rhythm.  
  
The taunting. He just wanted it to stop.  
  
The taunting. Throat closed up with fear.  
  
The taunting. Just stop. End it now.  
  
The taunting. Hands slick with sweat.  
  
The taunting. Eyes blurry.  
  
The taunting. Stop it.  
  
The taunting. Fear.  
  
The taunting. Twitch.  
  
“NO!”  
  
Eowyn launched herself across the room just in time to grab the precocious pre-teen and rescue the stack of boxes in the corner. All they needed in this incredibly small, stuffy, ill-lit and not too terribly safe room crammed with Rohan’s women and children would be a mass stampede to one side when the boxes on the top shelves came tumbling down. Not that there would be much room to scramble, but the mood about her bordered on hysteria anyway, she did not need falling toilet paper to start a panic. She handed off the child to her mother with a ‘what a _lovely_ child’ smile, then went in search of the next disaster in the making.  
  
Furious with her uncle for assigning her baby-sitting duty, Eowyn had had little time to brood since the order to hide had rung through Helm’s Deep. Too busy putting out fires, figuratively and literally. Fifteen so far and counting.  
  
All boys under the under the age of 16, small children and inexperienced women and girls had been evacuated to the very back room of the bunker, as far away as possible from the action and potential danger. It was her dubious honor to keep them calm and safe.  
  
The argument with Theoden ended short and sweet - he walked to the front with Aragorn at his side, she walked to the back seething about playing nanny. _Should be helping, defending. Rohan is my home, too, I have a viable stake in the outcome. Besides, I’m a much better shot than Gamling and he’s up there, not back here in the bowels of this hell hole, tripping over people, picking up toys, handing out drink boxes, watching that same little girl climb that same shelf, reaching for the -_  
  
“Hey! Get down from there!”  
  
Pippin ignored Merry.  
  
“Get down!”  
  
“Can’t see.” He climbed to a higher spot on the wall.  
  
The circle around Isengard had become a fabulous light show, the Ent guns tearing through the few orcs defending it. In the center, rising like a brooding shrine, Orthanc, Saruman’s private quarters, said nothing as the White Hand struggled to stay afloat against the onslaught of enraged Ents. Once a verdant forest, old and thriving, had formed a wider circle around Isengard, now the Ents advanced around stumps, charred and ragged. Life had been stripped away from this land, and the Ents now fought the foe who had raped it.  
  
“You could get hit!” Merry followed Pippin’s progress along the wall from the safety of the ground. “A stray bullet, flying shrapnel, a huge -”  
  
“Don’t worry so much.” Tearing down the stone wall, Pippin heading precisely where he shouldn’t. “They’re kicking ass!”   
  
“Pip! Stop!”  
  
“This is incredible!” He didn’t know where to look next, the panorama of retribution dazzled. “Treebeard’s buddies, bringing ‘em down like flies!”  
  
Had been told to stay put well behind the front line. Had been told to stay out of the way, far from harm’s possibility. Treebeard had told them both to be smart and keep safe. And Pippin had listened politely to everything Treebeard had said, then ignored everything Treebeard has said, taking off the instant the Ent had joined the fray, Merry running to keep up.  
  
“Pippin, goddammit, stop!” Supposed to be Merry’s show, really. He had been the one pushing, wishing, begging for the Ents involvement, for the Ents to stop Saruman. Yet, here he was down on the ground following Treebeard’s instructions, missing everything, while Pippin, a champion for the cause for Merry’s sake really, in his own engaging style of disregard orders, and sanity, tossing self into danger’s path to have a front row center seat to the single performance. _God, it fucking sucks sometimes being the responsible one_. “Pippin, you’re gonna get hurt!”  
  
“This is fucking fantastic!”  
  
After everything they had just barely scraped through, Pippin still paid no heed to his own safety. _All for you, don’t you know that, you wanker? Did this all for you. And look at you!_ “Pip, come on, stop acting like an idiot and come back here!” _You’d think he would have learned by now._  
  
“Fucking fantastic!” Pip jumped into the air, making a loud, obnoxious target, the toddler clapping his hands.  
  
_Apparently not._ “Gonna beat the shit out of you if you don’t -” The ground angled down, and the closer Pippin got to the end, the further away he skipped from safety, and Merry. “You little fucker!”

“You should be  up here watch – yes! And another orc bites the dust.”

Angry, rebukes ignored, terrified, retribution perhaps imminent, Merry raced all the way back, at least to a spot where the wall was low enough to clamor up on to. “Last warning, shithead,” like on a tight rope, with the battle royale serving as net, Merry tip-toeing out to the end, armed and ready, “come back NOW,” with the heavy artillery – “Peregrin Fortinbras Took!”

“Jesus Christ, lighten up, Meriadoc Rorimac Brandybuck,” the middle name salvo answered in kind, “So fucking far away from – what’s that?”

“What’s what?” Something behind – wall too narrow, feet too big to turn quick and – above didn’t matter, both of them fucked out in the open like – down, lots of flashes, a couple of booms, how high up are we, the ground rushing up to meet – no more looking down. “What’s WHAT?”  
  
“Something’s coming. Something loud. Something strong.” Pippin spun around, curiosity instantly snagged by another wonder. “Can’t you hear it, Merry?”  
  
Could now, ears tuned against the battle below – “What is – where is -” over there, northeast direction, a sound, a trembling, thundering, horses, or maybe elephants, hundreds…thousands - no, now that Merry thought about it, Niagara Falls, it sounded like Niagara Falls _\- a Webelos trip in the fourth grade, bus ride sucked balls, but Canada was cool -_ all that water rushing, loudest damn thing he ever heard. _Damn. Dam._

_Oh, shit!_

 “Dam, Pip, they broke the dam! Come back, come back!” Voice grower fainter, the approaching deluge deafening. “Pip! Come back!”

“Oh. My. God.”  
  
The Schuylkill River, blocked for Saruman’s industry and denied its purpose for so long, chased down its cracked dry course now, seeking out punishment for those who had kept it trapped. Joined with the rushing water, the detritus of months of orc carnage banged and bullied against the river’s shores, the waters a roiling, seething angry mass heading straight for Idsengard, and Orthanc and a gaping in wonder Pippin.  
  
“Run, Pip, RUN!”  
  
He did, finally, only in the opposite direction –

“Pippin, NO!”

\- directly toward the end of the wall that fell off to oblivion.

“What the fuck – PIP -”

Too late -

The water slammed into stone, pouring up and over, sending torn and chopped logs sailing into the air. Merry hugged the wall, fingers and toes finding purchase in the stone, as the river sped over and about him. High up on his perch something grazed his head, nudged his back, plowed into his legs. But, he could not spare the attention to look, his mind occupied with simply holding breath and holding on.

_FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckshitfuckFUCK!_

A finger snap – it was over. The river’s fury passing, the quiet after just as deafening as the water’s revenge, the giant wave engulfing all of Isengard, splashing the black stone of Orthanc clean.

_I’m – I’m – I didn’t – Goddamn, I’m a –_

Merry pried raw stiff fingers from the stone, knees and legs, gouged and battered, creaking to straight. A miracle, only wat to call it, a mysterious ways, saints be praised, gonna haveta’ light a candle in thanksgiving miracle. Shouldn’t be, the Schuylkill tsunami force deadly, yet here he was – alive. Which meant other survivors, which meant -

The wall lay empty.

“Oh, no, no, nonononono.”

He squinted, blinked, swatted away dirty water streaming into eyes, palm now blurred with blood. Wait a second, give time to recover, gather wits, say a prayer of thanks…wait another minute, perhaps a call for help, or a curse for luck, will –

The wall lay silent.

“Oh, fuck, no!”

Wet stones slippery, abused body flimsy, Merry still managed to stand, picking cautious path forward. An injury, that’s it, knocked silly, rendered unconscious, both perfectly logical reasons why, a rescue immediately required to –

The wall, out to the very end, counted a single occupant.

“Please, god, no.”

A look down, though acrophobia strongly advised against it, no more too far away rock solid earth on which to go splat, but turbulent lake, from wall to tower, muddy brown, deep and devastating, a look down to the only place his love could be.

“PIPPIN!” Called until throat burned raw.

“WHERE ARE YOU?”  
  
“Right here, nin bair pen, no need to shout.”  
  
Legolas pulled Haldir into an electrical alcove, pressing bodies in tight. “It’s begun.”  
  
“So, it would seem.” Haldir smiled, running fingers through fine gold spun hair. “Last time you braided your hair thusly, we faced the British. Must say I find a Musketeer’s uniform more dashing then this camo.”  
  
Feet pounded by and angry excited voices followed. Helm’s Deep was under attack.  
  
“I must locate Aragorn to see where he would like to position my archers.”  
  
“Haldir,” exit stopped short, “I just -”  
  
“Yes, Legolas, what is it?”  
  
And there it was, that confident, haughty expression that so irritated, well, just about everyone else. That slight cock of the head, the arched in bemusement eyebrow, the tiny deign to walk amongst the rabble up turn of lips, truly condescending perfection. He understood the true nature of this man, however, beneath the public persona, knew the heart, was drawn to the soul. The deep devotion to this world, to all of its inhabitants, sense of duty strong, Haldir had defended and fought in countless campaigns to secure Arda’s continued freedom, seeking no admiration or praise, only peace. And cheesecake. He believed in the right, vowed to forever protect the light, and tonight was no exception. Yes, Legolas understood very well.

“I love you, remember that.”  
  
“And, I you, nin bair pen.”  
  
“Be careful, OK? Don’t take silly chances just to prove your superiority over mere men.”  
  
Haldir chuckled with no hint of apology.  “But, I do so enjoy that. One of those rare moments of pure joy.”  
  
“Any others?”  
  
Instantly their mouths met, the kiss turning deep and sensual. Lovers across the centuries, Legolas and Haldir kissed with fire unquenchable.  
  
“I must go,” parting breezed lover’s mouth, “may my actions bring victory this day.”

Eyes kept tightly shut, Legolas wanting to carry the image of lover’s eyes, not his retreating back. “Be safe, nin emel, and return to me.”  
  
Frenzied noise in the corridor too loud, too urgent to dismiss any longer. Emerging from the alcove, he was swept away with the hustling traffic, accountants, artists, mechanics, manicurists, determination their common bond. Ordinary people now forced into a struggle brought to their doorstep because of greed and hubris. Rohan’s citizen soliders, and many would die tonight unaware and unwitting in their part in the ultimate battle.  
  
“How did it come to this?”  
  
“Watch out!”  
  
Orc bullets, shot with silencers, dinged the concrete above Theoden’s head.  
  
“Maybe you should think about going inside, sir,” Gamling cringed as another bullet whizzed by, “you know, coordinate things from in there.”  
  
Theoden’s pistol flashed and an orc jerked sideways, falling awkward to the grass. “I am not afraid of Saruman.”  
  
“Well, he scares the hell out of me.”  
  
“Sending Haldir and his men out to flank on the left side,” Aragorn appearing, Magnum ready with a clean shot through an orc’s eye. “Their bows should help dwindle the numbers.”  
  
Theoden nodded approval, Aragorn disappeared.  
  
As the Rohan guns boomed, “They just keep coming and coming.”  
  
The harsh light of the enemy’s headlights cut the approaching orcs into grotesque silhouettes, all angles and points. They came in wave after wave out across the field, following Saruman’s one directive: kill. Rohan’s defenses were holding, even manned mostly by the inexperienced. All fought with a purpose, even the young men, faces now slack with their introduction to stark reality, remained in line next to fathers, brothers and uncles. Members of Rohan’s Markswoman Association every shot well aimed and deadly accurate. Age, sex and experience irrelevant. Rohan worked as a team. Would it be enough?  
  
“Oh, yes, and this just makes the night perfect.” The rain poured down on Helm’s Deep. “Of course it had to start raining.”  
  
Rohan’s defenders mowed down another wave sent by the White Hand, quickly followed by the next one. Rohan’s guns never stopped  
  
“Ammunition.” Theoden turned to his assistant with alarm. They had no hope at all without that. “How is our ammo supply?”  
  
“Should hold out ‘til morning.” Gamling crossed fingers for that little extra cant’s hurt bit of luck.  
  
Screams of the wounded lifted high over the signs of battle.  
  
“Will Rohan survive until the morning?”  
  
Treebeard closed his eyes and listened.   
  
He had stated his request, laid out the facts, imbuing each word with the exigency for their aid if Rohan was to  greet the dawn. With so few orcs here at Isengard, Treebeard knew what the people stuck in that hole in the ground faced. Word had traveled fast through the forest of Rohan’s plan of defense at Helm’s Deep, and the over-confident Saruman had sent the bulk of his army against those kind horse people. While Isengard was conquered before the battle had even truly begun, the Ent numbers too few and far away to reach in time that other struggle. Treebeard could only think of one way to send help. He talked to the trees.  
  
Thousands of years they had stood silent, ignoring the world, yet harboring a resentment against those who had treated the forest as a commodity  to be bought and sold, owned and possessed, an obstacle to be chopped, burned and cleared for what was called progress. Deep in their slumber, the hatred seethed for the interlopers, the developers, the destroyers, for all things man, and Treebeard counted on that hatred to awaken them to the dire situation unfolding around them, to understand their future should the shadow triumph. They had listened, reluctantly at first, then with a burning rage.  Revenge rustled in the leaves, the desire to hurt, maim and kill shouted from the swaying branches. The trees listened, remembered and awoke.  
  
Treebeard’s opened eyes beheld an empty forest. It is done. He walked back to his fight, back to Isengard. He had done all he could for Rohan.  
  
“Only hope it’s not too late.”  
  
Eomer shifted,  impatient in waiting for the others to mount.  
  
“We must ride with speed, Eomer,” Gandalf’s magnificent steed pawing at the ground, barely contained fervor for action,  “Saruman does not intend to loose this battle.”  
  
The last of his men saddled up and ready to roll, Eomer spurred Hasufel to action. He galloped out in the night, Shadowfax and his rider meeting the blistering pace with ease.  
  
“I do not intend to allow Rohan to fall.”  
  
“But, we’re inside, underground,” the boy complained as he heaved one more sand-bag onto the pile, “how’s this gonna help when he fight’s out there?”  
  
“And the fight will very soon be in here if we don’t take steps to prevent it.”  
  
Sticky sweaty face swipe, the boy shook his head at the clueless adult. “How could they _get_ inside? We are in a fallout shelter, for pity’s sake!”  
  
“Never underestimate an enemy determined to win.”

“But, only one way in, ya’ know, up there, and all of Rohan is blocking the way!”

Gimli took the pipe from his mouth, giving the exasperated boy a steadying look. “We must all do our part, young man, and right now these sand bags are yours.”  
  
“This is so lame,” empty oilcan kicked, clattering against the far wall, “built into the hills. Nothing but dirt on all sides.”  
  
“Built over fifty years ago Helm’s Deep is a marvel. But, the world that saw its construction is a very different place from today. We are vulnerable, lad, vulnerable because we are underground,” Gimli patted the rough Red Scare inspired wall. “Call it engineer’s intuition. Or you can just call me crazy, but I know those orcs are planning something. Don’t want to be sitting on my laurels when the ceiling comes crashing down. So, come on, we have many more sand bags to place.” He tussled the boy’s red hair.  
  
And red hair squirmed away. “In the end, after all the excitement is over, bet this will all be just a waste of time.”  
  
Gimli chuckled as he too bent to the sand bag drudgery. “Take that bet, lad. But, there’s one thing you should always remember.”  
  
“Yeah, what’s that?” Tone leaned heavy on the implied “old man.”  
  
“No place is unbreachable.”  
  
The one carrying the bomb smirked at the other holding the air vent open.  
  
“Too bad they forgot all about these little things.”  
  
They both watched it slip down the shaft, to darkness, to death.  
  
“This is too easy.”  
  
“Too easy? Are you _nuts_?”

“Mind your task, mister!”

“You mean, like this?” Didn’t even bother to aim, hardly even glanced as shot fired, one less orc, thousands left to go. “How long have we been out here?” Another shot, another orc gone at the hands of a corporate attorney. “How long can we keep going?”

And that was the very same questions niggling the back of Aragorn’s mind. It was all wrong, the orc strategy. Just keep throwing bodies right at Rohan, each one stopped cold. It had become target practice and his men grew over-confident. Maybe that was Saruman’s plan - sacrifice orcs in staggering numbers until complacency set in. Or ammunition ran out. A possibility, but – no, it lacked finesse, Saruman was a show-off and winning a war of attrition would not prove to the world his superiority.

_Something else, something I’m missing._  
  
Eyes swept the field as yet another brace of orcs came heading across the body-choked grass. They were gunned down, the mood behind the lines inching closer to boredom, stockpiles to depletion. This was not good.  
  
_Whatever you’re going to pull, Saruman, I wish you would do it -_  
  
A low blast, ground heaved, Aragorn shoved aside, hitting down hard. Alarms blared, dust clogged the air, chaos in the dark, the screams of the wounded, and trapped and frightened replacing gunfire as the loudest noise in Helm’s Deep.

_Inside, the impossible, IED, perhaps multiple, the carnage must be -_  
  
So, it had finally come, Saruman’s trick had been played. Rohan crippled, terrified, blind.

_I had to ask for –_

“Watch out!” Command shouted, command to the men behind the breaks as a wave perfectly timed with the blast nearly reached Rohan’s defenses. “Forget everything else, eyes on them!”

“Yes, sir!” A chorus of the brave.

Guns in unison, the sound reassuring as Aragorn headed into bunker blackness, the way forward managed by hand on the wall. _Must find Theoden, must get generators back, must assess damage, must – shit!_ Whatever he had stumbled over, knocking head into useless breaker box, still warm, not breathing, he didn’t want to know. _Must not break my neck as I –_

“They’ve broken in!”

“Dead, we’re all dead!”

“Ye, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

Concrete collapsing, terrified neighing, disembodied voices rife with pain and fear haunted the dark, Rohan’s dying cries. Lost and confused as well, his only offering of hope, an empty platitude.

“Whatever you do, don’t panic!”

“What’s happening?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Eowyn’s hollow calm had disappeared as soon as the lights went out.

“But, they could be out there right -”  
  
”Don’t anybody move or try to run. Someone could be seriously injured. Stay put, sit down and grab the person next to you.” She followed her own advice, sliding down the wall until butt hit floor. “Gimli will find a way to get the generators working again, have no fear.”  
  
Children whimpering and soft choruses of ‘Mommy, I’m scared’ assured Eowyn that she was not alone. Those, and the hands she held on either side. The impenetrable darkness, however, made the goose bumps rise. _Nothing in the dark that isn’t there in the light, Wyn._   
  
The bunker had been breached, the orcs had found a way inside. Did not need outside confirmation on that, she had felt and heard the blast. It only meant one thing. Her room full of women and children with only paper goods to defend themselves would soon be facing The White Hand. The only uncertainty was when. And how. And who. Or what. The possibilities too frightening to calculate.  
  
N _othing in the dark, Wyn, nothing except Saruman’s orcs, orcs that only want to kill, and destroy and just like the ones from my dreams, just like the ones that mom always said didn’t hide in the closet, but now I know they’re real, because they are waiting just outside that door, waiting to come in here and bite and eat and tear and -_  
  
“You OK?”  
  
A hand squeezed hers. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Eowyn shifted, the cold of the concrete seeping into her bones. “We’re all just fine.” That lie tasted especially sour, because she knew they weren’t, wouldn’t be once that door opened to – _jagged teeth that can rip the flesh right off your – damn,_ shifted again, away from the sharp lump poking her – _IPhone. Useless, no signal back this far, can’t reach anybody, can’t call for help, waste precious battery life trying…to…conn -_  
  
“Hey! Everybody listen!” Reaching awkwardly given the cramped space, Eowyn dug out her phone, and a tap on the app - a flash of light. “Who else has one of these? Who’s got a cell phone?”  
  
Other dots blinked on.  
  
“Tablets, Kindles, anything. DS’s , I know we’ve got some of those,  in this room. Turn those on, too.”  
  
More pinpricks of light. A small field of stars underground.  
  
“Anything, anything at all. Use it, turn it on.”  
  
Makeup mirrors, key chain lights, even a laptop soon had the room illuminated enough to see faces drawn with apprehension  
  
“OK, OK,” Eowyn beamed, proud of her resourceful little troop, “that’s more like it. We have light.”  
  
A collective sigh went up in the small room as mother looked at child, friend beheld friend. Eowyn’s goose bumps even calmed down. All she had to do now was wait, and wait, and pray for long-life batteries.  
  
“Hold out for a little while longer. Please?”  
  
“Can’t… breathe.”  
  
Legolas dug with bloodied hands down into the wreckage, straining up on the steel beam to move it one more inch, just one more. Maybe that would the  trapped man enough room to escape. Stretched beyond limit, arms trembled, spirit tried, but the beam did not budge.  
  
“I’ll go get help, just hold on.”  
  
A gurgle of last words. “Watch… out.”  
  
White knife’s blade dazzled in the weak light of his abandoned hand torch, one swift movement, the orc’s throat sliced clean through. Second knife, second slash, second orc dead. The third orc brought down with a small fire axe to the back.  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“Looking for you,” the engineer worked the axe back out of the dead orc, a squishy back and forth, “the bunker’s overrun. Only a fool’s hope left to win this thing.”  
  
The knives seared back into their sheaths. “We’re still here. That’s hope enough.”  
  
A smile of true friendship passed between the two.  
“Aragorn,” Gimli scooping up the torch, “with him beside us, the orcs don’t stand a chance, and maybe Rohan will.”  
  
“Then we must find him.”  
  
“I know, Merry, I know! Calm down!”  
  
“Calm down?” Merry waded through the dirty water after Treebeard. “The river washed  him away! That was over an hour ago. He could be hurt or trapped or -” Merry stopped, not wanting to put worst fears into words. “Please, Treebeard, you’ve got to help me find Pippin.”  
  
Complete victory for the Ents, Orthanc swimming in the middle to the now placid water, shut down, closed up, save for a light flickering in the top most window. The circle of Isengard a blank slate again, where life could rewrite its story. They had triumphed, yet, worry over Rohan and now the loss of Pippin during the battle had heart and soul heavy. Give and take, one for the other, often Nature restoring balance. Treebeard sighed melancholy, looking down at his friend. “Where did you last see him?”  
  
“I told you that! Told you ten times! Over there!” Merry pointed, his gesture sharp and angry. “He was on the wall, then the water - he could be anywhere now!”  
.  
“Anywhere is not a good place to start a search, Merry.”  
  
“I don’t know! FUCK!” A savage kick, water splashing already drenched clothes. “I don’t know!” _This was my show, my doing, I pushed, I begged. And now Pippin is lost. He shouldn’t have been out there on the wall like that, the little shit, but still, we shouldn’t have been here in the first place. We should have been home, just like Pippin wanted to do, what he suggested. Call the folks and go home, put all this shit behind us. But, no, I wouldn’t do that, I wouldn’t swallow my pride and ask for help from my parents. I had to prove something, had to show everybody, had to show Pippin that I could protect him, that nobody touches him, nobody hurts him when I’m around. But,_ you _did, Merry,_ you _did just that. Hurt him with the marriage talk, hurt him when you turned away, and now he’s lost, lost. Not now, not now, please God, not now. Don’t take him from me now. So little time left. Please, not now!_ Tears slid down his nose to be swallowed by the water below. “I can’t lose him, I just can’t.”  
  
What should be a celebratory day, perhaps not for all. “Come then, Merry. Let’s go find your Pippin.”  
  
  
  
* _nin bair pen = my fair one_

_** nin emel = my heart_  
  
  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

**The Ring Goes South**  
Chapter Sixteen  


 

 

  
  
“Where’s Timothy? Have you seen Timothy? I can’t find him, can’t find my son. Timothy!”  
  
The stream of people heading in the opposite direction seemed endless. No one paying heed to the desperate cries of a mother.  
  
“He was here, I know, he told me he had important business, a job down here. Inside. Timothy! Have you seen my Timothy?”  
  
The heat of the bunker became oppressive. Clothes, dirty from hours behind the breaks, stuck to her skin, the sweat marking swatches down a battle weary face.  
  
“What happened? Nobody’s telling me anything! Timothy! Where are you? Timothy!”  
  
The dark closed in, dust choking out the meager beam of her flashlight. The twists and turns of the corridors had her going in circles, passing the same pile of blasted concrete three times.  
  
“Timothy! Can you hear me? It’s mom, I’ve come to find you! Where’s my son? Timothy!”  
  
Her automatic slapped against her thigh, impotent now without ammunition. The number of dead a blur; her hand spasmed from the hours spent just pulling the trigger over and over.  
  
“Got to find you. Timothy! Where are you? God, Timothy, answer me!”  
  
Too many bodies to comprehend, yet the flood of orcs from the headlights never stopped. Twenty strong when that first shot was mistakenly fired, her last companion fell, a bullet in the throat, leaving her to defend alone.  
  
“You’ve got to be down here, I know it! You told me you came down here, told me! Timothy! Where are you?”  
  
The ground had jumped beneath her feet; the mangled body of a neighbor breaking her fall. Staring into dead eyes, she instantly understood that it was done, over. Rohan would fall. Her next thought of her son.  
  
“Timothy! Timothy! Where are you? Call to me, son, come on, just call to me and I’ll find you. Timothy! Call to me!”  
  
Throughout the hellish night, all she had prayed for was the sun, to see the sky brighten with pink. In the daylight things would get better, they always did. A new day, a new start. But, she had fled the warming pre-dawn sky to run down into darkness, leaving the light, to find her son.  
  
“Timothy! Oh, god, where are you? Where are you? Timothy!”  
  
She passed neighbors, friends, rivals, strangers all dazed and bloody as she. They, too, were lost, tripping through the dimness of Helm’s Deep. If they could not give her the information she wanted, if they could not lead her to her son, she moved on without a word to the next broken soul. And the next. And the next. No one knew where to go. The White Hand crowded over the field, swarmed through the bunker. People tried to escape to a place of safety; for Rohan, that place did not exist anymore.  
  
“Timothy! Where are you?”  
  
Rohan was broken, the evidence lay about her feet; smashed concrete, smashed weapons, smashed bodies. People stumbled over the corpses, walking like the dead themselves, wandering. A few clung to objects - books, pictures, dolls - the last remnants of a normal life. She carried nothing except her flashlight. All she really cared to hold had disappeared into the bunker hours ago to help fill sand-bags.  
  
“Timothy! Damnit, answer me! Timothy! Have you seen my son?”  
  
A group of men hurried by; Theoden Riddermark, the odd man with the sword. They ran with a purpose, they moved with a mission, heading up, back out, back to the field now controlled by the orcs. They could not help her; they did not stop.  
  
“Timothy! Timothy? Timothy!”  
  
Flashlight batteries only had a limited life span, and hers began to sputter out their last breath. She stopped, banging the silver tube to the heel of her hand in desperation. Her mission not complete, her goal not reached. Her son was still missing.  
  
“Timothy, please, baby, answer me!”  
  
Without light, she stumbled along the dark hall, the sounds of Rohan’s pathetic last struggles breaking through her sobs. She would not give up, could not give in. Her only son, the image of her slaughtered husband; her son, the only reason she had endured the fight.  
  
“Timothy, baby, where are you?”  
  
Fatigue her worst enemy now. Feet scraped the floor, her progress slowed as her body at last wrung dry. The flashlight slipped from her limp fingers. With a metallic smack, it skittered across the floor, rolling one last pure beam of light out across a pile of sand-bags. Grit clogged her vision and through watery eyes she concentrated on the one bright spot before her. One hand, curled upwards in silence, and a bright red head of hair.  
  
“Timothy.”

 

  
*******

 

  
  
“Where’s Haldir? Have you seen Haldir? I cannot find him, cannot find Haldir!”  
  
Through a thick layer of morning haze, Legolas viewed the field. Moments before what was left of Saruman’s White Hand had sought the shelter of the trees, running just ahead of the horses of Eomer’s patrol. Caught between the wedge of Rohan, lead by Theoden out of Helm’s Deep, and the timely arrival of Gandalf and Eomer, the orc lines had broken in confusion. Those that survived that last push, retreated to the obscurity of the trees.  
  
“Haldir! Where are you?”  
  
The forest had moved, though. Legolas, along what remained of Rohan’s defenses, watched in dumbstruck horror as trees flowed towards Helm’s Deep, a great, green tide pounding over the battlefield, stopping a mere 20 ft before the bunker. The beaten orcs took no time to wonder how this miracle occurred, didn’t care to ponder the why, they only smashed into the thickness, self-preservation paramount. All over in a matter of minutes, the death screams obscured by the violent rustling of the branches. Rohan could do nothing but stand and watch nature take its revenge.  
  
“Rivendell’s men, have you seen them? Did you see where they went? Haldir!”  
  
Satiated, the trees flowed back to the normal ring that encircled the bunker, leaving behind only bits of clothing, a few bent rifles and smears of black blood, tinting the ruined field. A banner, White Hand smudged, lay trampled and torn on the grass.   
  
“Haldir! Have you seen him? Have you? Seen Haldir?”  
  
Aragorn nodded once to Legolas, pointing vaguely to his left. He spoke with Gandalf, thanking Eru for the old man’s unlooked for arrival. If he had stuck to his original schedule, Gandalf would have found Rohan defeated.   
  
“Haldir! _Haldir_!”  
  
Hope of victory discarded, and the decision to make one last stand against The White Hand had met with approving nods all around. Theoden, flanked by Aragorn and Gamling, pushed through the fleeing crowds within the bunker to march out to meet the orcs in the fresh air and dawning light. Rohan would fall, but it would fall fighting. Legolas had fallen into step behind the freelancer, and turned a proud eye when Gimli appeared at his shoulder. Still an irritating, opinionated snot, Legolas had grown to respect the man for his courage and conviction. If Legolas were to die today, he would consider it an honor to perish with the engineer by his side.  
  
“Haldir! If you are playing one of your little games, I’m going to be beyond angry when I find you. Haldir!”  
  
The fighting had been fierce once they reached topside, but soon the small band had reinforcements from those few left with ammunition and strength. Legolas’ bow hummed as arrow after carbon-cored arrow sunk into orc flesh, his world numb. Arrow supply eventually exhausted, Legolas had turned to his knives to dispatch the enemy, slicing through throats and severing arteries with equal skill. Gimli had used that small fire axe and the few shotgun shells he had left to rack up his own body count. To the center of their line, Aragorn’s sword clanged and parried while Theoden picked off the orcs one by one it seemed without even aiming. Each man fought with a ferocity hitherto untapped. However, the sheer numbers of orcs began to work against them. Rohan’s last stand was drawing to a close.  
  
“Haldir! Where are you? Shout, yell, something! Just say anything! Where are you?”  
  
Legolas did not understand how he heard it over the cacophony of guns and swords, screaming and dying. Yet, there it was, the whinny of a single horse. It trumpeted the arrival of hope. Led by Gandalf, his staff shining out, Eomer’s patrol hit the orcs from behind, scattering the ranks, giving Rohan the precious gift of breathing room. Only fifty strong, the patrol managed to throw panic into the enemy lines, and they broke, running away to the trees. They never made it out of the forest alive.  
  
“Haldir! Anybody, have you seen the men from Rivendell? Have you seen Haldir?”  
  
The weak October sun moseyed through the morning fog as Legolas walked the field. The trees had been indiscriminate when it came to their destruction, Rohan bodies and orc corpses alike gone. No remains left to bury or explain nothing to show the world of Saruman’s defeat, or the sacrifice of the people of Rohan and others. On an eerily silent field, Legolas searched for any clue that would lead him to his lover.  
  
“Haldir! Haldir? _Haldir_!”  
  
The thought of his love in the grips of those primeval branches, turned Legolas away from the forest, shuddering. He would look there only as a last resort. But, Haldir certainly would make his presence known any moment now. Too many battles, wars and centuries under his belt to fall prey to The White Hand. _I’m just over-reacting, borrowing trouble, worrying needlessly._ Haldir was the best shot he knew, even better than himself. Haldir was perfectly safe and sound, probably waited, with a bemused smile, for his return. _He’ll be making jokes at my expense all night!_ Legolas shook his head, chuckling at his own paranoia. Aragorn waved, and Legolas trotted back to the bunker. _Bet Haldir’s waiting for me right now._ A flash caught Legolas’ eye. A pile of trucks, swatted aside and crumpled, formed a desolate heap on the far side of the field. He blinked and the flash came again. Adrenaline born out of fear propelled him forward. The flash grew more distinct. Some feet from the metal mass, Legolas stopped, energy draining away. The flash came into sickening focus. One hand, curled up in silence, and a golden head of hair.  
  
“Haldir.”

 

  
*******  
  
  
  
  
“Where’s Pippin? Have you seen Pippin? I can’t find him, can’t find Pippin!”  
  
If Merry never saw another river, stream, creek, lake or full bathtub it would be too soon for him. It seemed he had always been waterlogged as he trudged through the thigh deep mess in search of his friend. Three times now, sometimes with Treebeard’s help, sometimes alone, Merry had walked the circle of Isengard. So far nothing.  
  
“Pip! Can you hear me? Pippin! Answer me, you little fucker, answer me! Pip!”  
  
The Ents and the Schuylkill River had obliterated Saruman’s White Hand. Several times the professor had walked out on his top floor balcony silently observing his defeat. Never did anything, just stared to the east, before disappearing inside again. Merry wished for nothing more than to yank the bastard down off his perch and hold him sputtering and gagging under the water pulling up a bloated corpse from the ground. Merry could not reach him with his hands, so he shot Saruman a bird instead.  
  
“Come on, buddy, give me a sign, wave a hand, send up a flare, something. Let me know where you are. Pip!”  
  
A weaselly, little guy appeared on the balcony about an hour ago, shouting the unimaginative expletive “Damn you to hell!”, and tossed things over the railing. Files fluttered down to the water below, books flew through the air - a computer monitor, a silver dish, an expensive leather office chair all plunked into the lake swimming around Orthanc. Merry watched with a satisfied smile the contents of Saruman’s office floating about him. The tantrum brought to a close by a sharply administered slap, Saruman dragged the little man off the balcony by his hair. The black stone tower remained silent ever since.  
  
“Pippin! I’m getting really pissed now, you wanker. Where are you? Pip! Peregrin, where the hell are you?”  
  
With his hands, knuckles scraped hamburger raw, Merry shoved against a pile of logs previously searched. With the water slowly receding and the sun breaking through the dawn’s clouds, he had returned to check again. Perhaps Pippin had been unconscious the first and second times around, maybe he couldn’t answer then because he was knocked out or trapped or something else. Merry’s push revealed a beach ball, a milk carton, a shoe. He pushed again. An orc body floated to the top. He hurried to the next pile.  
  
“Pippin, I’ll give you anything you want, do anything you want, just answer me! Answer me, Pip goddammit! Answer me!”  
  
Treebeard had helped in the beginning, knocking piles apart with a swift kick. But, with the coming of the day and the extent of the destruction wrought about Isengard now apparent, the Ent’s attention was pulled in a myriad directions. Now, he stood placating the authorities, giving them a plausible explanation for last night’s series of events. _If that’s possible_. He had borne witness and he didn’t even know what the fuck really happened. The fire trucks, red lights pulsing, remained; ambulances, their sirens wailing, had left over an hour ago, gone where their services could be of use.  
  
“Getting tired of this shit, Pip, getting real fucking tired of walking around looking for you, ya know? Pip! Where the fuck are you? Pip! PIPPIN!”  
  
He made a bargain with the devil and cursed his maker. He damned Saruman to hell and promised it all to the Almighty. He went from worried to frustrated to pissed to petrified. He walked until his legs scarcely moved, he yelled until his voice barely a croaked whisper. He called, cussed, cried and cursed. But, still Merry was without Pippin.  
  
“Don’t do this, Pip, don’t you leave like this. Still time, still time. Pip!”  
  
The fire trucks rumbled away, Pennsylvania State Patrol departed, local sheriff and police sped off to other, more urgent calls. Treebeard huddled with his fellow Ents to talk over the future of Isengard. Merry collapsed to the soggy ground.   
  
“Pip, oh, Pip, where are you? Love you, you wanker, you redneck, love you! Give it all up, everything. We can live in New York, PA, even east bumble-fuck Tennessee if you want. Don't care. Pip, where are you? Don't want those things, don't need those things, Stell, marriage, kids. Only need you. I love you, Pip. Do you know that? I love you, adore you, crazy 'bout you, fantasize 'bout you, it's all you, Pip. That's all I need. Where are you? Where the fuck are you? Don't, don't do this, don't leave, please, Pip, don't leave me.”   
  
The roar of arriving vehicles brought tear tracked face up to the light. Trucks, three of them, mud-stained Chevy’s, green with a white logo, a swirly head of some such – a man…three men – seven, climbing out, walking up to –

_No fucking way._

A series of blinks, maybe water in his eyes was making him see things that couldn’t – nope, still there. A head shake, rattle back into place what dam deluged log had knocked out of – still there. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, dudes he didn’t know and hugging Treebeard – Gandalf.

_Goddamn, he IS alive._

Why, he didn’t care, how, even less, resurrection tall tale could come later, over beers and mimosas. The important point – The Fellowship – _the non-dead or MIA parts, that is –_ is here, now, and if anyone knew how to find a fool of a Took it would be –

“Gandalf!”

Too busy in conversation with Treebeard, concentrating too hard, to notice anything else, that’s why he didn’t turn to look at –

“Hey! Gandalf! Aragorn! HEY! Over here!”

Too far away, can’t hear, can’t see, yeah, that’s why no answer, that’s why nobody’s paying attention to –

Merry going to the mountain, big sloshing steps, with arms waving high – “Hey! Guys, over here!” – hope carried in just one damp pocket, for if they failed, then that could only mean – “Gandalf! Hey! Aragorn! Help! I need some -”

Papers, skimmed by the breeze along water’s surface. Papers bobbing all around Merry’s legs. Papers – no, pictures, digital prints, a soggy stack of drippy photographic evidence.

_The green door, the front stoop, fire escapes out back, why the fuck would Saruman have –_

Sinking, translucent rectangles to the bottom, destined to be forgotten, lost under one of the hundreds of battle refuge snarls, Merry reaching out to rescue – _and this one’s of the terrace on the –_ bile erupted, gagged, scorched, for tangled and lifeless, one hand offered in silence, a curly, sun kissed head of hair.

“Oh, Pippin.”

 

 

*****  


 

  
  
“Got something in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”   
  
“Shit!”  Carrying the body away nearly lost his grip. “You – you’re - oh, god!”

“Can't – breathe - Merry.”   
  
“Sorry.” Body down on own two feet, the stranglehold released. “I thought – wall – just thought, thought you -” a proper hug this time, joy and relief embracing the lost returned. “Goddamn, Pippin.”

And the found tightened it tenfold. “I know, Merry, me, too.”

Tender reunited moment –

“Goddamn, Pippin!”

\- had a short shelf life, pushed away Pippin landing on his ass with a splash.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Merry’s flash hot with justified anger. “Why? I want to know why? Why didn’t you listen to me? Why didn’t you come back? Why did you run the other way?”

“Well, I figured I could -”

“So fucking stupid!” Merry’s ire rhetorical apparently, neither needing nor wanting Pippin’s input to be fulfilled. “After the water, when I saw the wall was empty, I -” fists, knuckled hard, ached for something to pummel, “I searched all night, you little shit, Treebeard wasting his time when he – when _you_ should have never been -”

“Only wanted to watch, only wanted to see -”

A savage kick sent cardboard box airborne spinning. “I thought you were fucking dead!”

“I’m sorry, Merry, I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry. You’re – you’re _sorry_?” Yes, he was, the epitome of contriteness, repentant and shivering, the little boy shoved by the bully into the puddle, bruised and filthy, remorse brimming tears falling fat and fast, his transgression all the more full for the heartache caused. And WHOOSH! Fury gone, now that its voice had been heard, emotions acknowledged and validated, all the animus and hurt and terror and loss and blame whisked away, the supports that had propped up and propelled forward throughout the hellish night collapsing, Merry’s ass straight down splash beyond spent. “Oh, Pippin.”

The sobs held close, Merry’s release slipped down Pippin’s neck salty. “Never again, I swear, mortal danger and me now mutually exclusive.”

“You swear? You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to -” yeah, perhaps not best to go there at the moment, “- live until I’m fucking ancient.”

“Gonna hold you to that, ya’ know.”

“I can’t wait.”

They could have moved, out and up from the standing water, the carnage detritus stew, should have relocated to some higher drier ground, like one of the parked and now useless cars for example. But, they didn’t, too soon to lose physical contact, too content to sit huddled as one, too exhausted to ask bodies for more.

“So, how the hell did you survive?” Hand-in-semi-permanent- pruned-hand, Merry testing the fit, cementing their connection, “There’s no fucking way you -”

“Grabbed onto a log and just surfed, riding that wave, ir was fucking awe -” also not a place to visit if Merry’s pained and pissed expression would be coming with, “then I guess I passed out,” fit tight between knees, Pippin snuggling into his most favorite destination, “ ‘cause the next thing I remember is you.”

Another miracle, another candle to light.

“So, as if Isengard’s new landscaping isn’t a clue, did we win?”

Chin propped atop head, Merry rubbed warmth to Pippin’s chilled limbs. “It’s over. Saruman’s done, defeated, fucking finished.”

“It’s over, fucking over. And so are we.” A shared sigh of burden’s release, of impossible mission accomplished. “We can finally go home.”

Home. The place he doubted he would ever see again, and the one he held in his arms. “Yes, Pip, we can go home. Just as soon as I talk to Gandalf.”

A snort for the improbable. “Yeah, right, don’t even know where he -”

“Yes, I do, he’s here.”

“Wha – what?” A stutter for the unbelievable. “Gandalf is -”

“And Aragorn, saw them drive up a little while ago.” A point to indicate the green Chevys. “Might know something about - here, sit up a sec,” Merry reached into his jacket pocket, “want to give Gandalf these.”

“A ginormous spitball?”

“No, _these_ ,” arms out on either side so both could see, Merry unsquicked the sodden pages apart, “found ‘em in the water. Only glanced at a few, but figured they probably belong to Saruman. Why he would have them, no fucking clue.”

“Bag End…The Shire…” Pippin thumbing through the soggy stack, “Bilbo leaving…entering... sweeping up – yeah,  curiouser and curiouser.”

“I know, right? Saruman stalking Bilbo? How does he even -”

“Fucking creep -” the squint examination brought nose in close. “Oh, shit.”

“What, Pip, what?”

“Saruman wanted the Ring, Bilbo had the Ring, Bilbo gave the Ring to -” finger tapped fuzzy figure in story window.

“Frodo.” In fact, rifling through to the bottom of the pile, Frodo in all but two: corpulent cat pic, and the aerial sh – no, wait, how could he have missed this – not only Frodo, but Sam kneeling in his rooftop garden. “This is bad, very bad. If Saruman found out where The Ring – Saruman tight with The Dark – ”

“Gandalf,” bone weary a distant memory, “where is he?”

“Round front by now, I guess, but -”

Papers snatched away, “Gandalf!” Big splashes, bigger waving, shouting obnoxious, “Gandalf! Come on, Merry! _Gandalf!_ For Frodo and Sam! GANDALF!” Pippin running, hell bent for attention, for help, for his friends –

“No, not that -”

\- running the wrong way.

“Oh, Pippin.”

And Merry ran after, as he always did, to corral and collect, chasing after, as he always did, to find and fix, that other future doubts , of marriage and mundane, now banished by the long night’s cruel visions, Merry followed Pippin to love, adore and cherish his truest miracle, as he forever would.

 

  
  
******  


 

  
  
Saruman’s voice pierced the October chill. Below him stood his judge and jury. They had come here to Isengard to take him away, (Theoden Riddermark, weak leader of Rohan.) They had come to talk sense into him, (the one who could only be Islidur’s heir). They had come to persuade him to turn from his Master, (Gandalf, now masquerading in white). Wasted breath, for he did not intend to step down, to leave Orthanc, of disavowing his allegiance to Sauron. They wanted to talk sense, but it was Saruman’s words that would carry the day.  
  
“Theoden Riddermark, friend and neighbor, this fighting between us has caused pain and despair. It need not be so. Have we not always existed in a state of cooperation and trust? Why did this change? Why this hatred between our people? Misunderstandings, false accusations, vigilante justice have created havoc. Listening to the advice of interlopers has driven a wedge between Isengard and Rohan. Yet, it is not irretrievable, the peace we once shared. We can return to happier times. All you need do is turn a deaf ear to the ill-advised words from those outsiders, those who do not live and work here, those who care only for themselves. Listen to me, to the person who understands what is needed for Rohan, for your people. Allow me, your friend, your neighbor, to lead you. Follow me, and I will guarantee you no more strife will befall Rohan.  
  
“Gandalf, Olorin, we are two of a kind, you and I. Matchless and separate in this world of mortal man. We have watched them tear asunder kingdom and country, pray to this god and that, and after all the ages, they still flounder in ignorance. We could give them guidance, we could bring all the world together, you and I, could set the world on the right path, unite everything. No more petty squabbles, no more doubt. Together we can make this world’s destiny. Join with me, use your wisdom, compassion and strength for the common good. Join with me and rule.”  
  
They listened, his tone mellifluous, his words brilliant and persuasive. Case stated, laid out logically, in detail, his choices, his decisions, the path that brought him to today. He moved them, he could see even from his high balcony how his audience leaned into every word. Saruman smiled as his voice worked its magic. Haven’t lost my touch.  
  
“Gandalf! Hey, Gandalf! Look what we found!”  
  
The raucous voices broke the spell. Saruman’s audience blinked once, twice, then returned to the sensible world. The arrival of those two false Ringbearers, splashing and yelling, and Saruman’s words were forgotten.  
  
“Idiots! Do you think that rag tag troop you’ve assembled can do anything against the Dark Lord? Think for one minute of the power you fight. It cannot be defeated by wishing it so, it cannot be destroyed through good intentions, it will not fall to a show of arms, and, in the end, when all of Arda lay seeping in your blood, that power will rise from the wasted earth to rule supreme, all vestiges of those who opposed it wiped away. You have chosen the weaker side, you have chosen the side that will fail, you have chosen the side that will die.”  
  
Saruman’s hatred poured out when they had the gall to offer him his freedom. Whom does that doddering, old fool think he is talking to? I am the head of our order, Gandalf, your superior, the mightiest in the realm!  
  
“Fight, bleed, die, you misguided simpletons, for all of you most assuredly will. Leave here? Leave Orthanc? Why would I do that? To live on your charity, to live by your rules? You are more imbecilic than I first imagined. Why would I abandon everything on the eve of victory? It is you who are foolish, Gandalf, not I. I need only wait here until the inevitable comes to pass. Sauron will triumph and then we shall see who speaks of granting freedom.”  
  
The entrance of Grima marred his perfect exit off the balcony. With a feral bellow, the small man hurled something at Saruman’s head. It missed, only to smash through the railing and land with a great splash near those irritating false Ringbearers. Not until the object was retrieved from the water did Saruman realize the extent of the damage done. My Palantir! His only link to the Master now in the hands of Gandalf.   
  
Saruman turned his rage on Grima. The first blow struck head, blood spurting from a torn lip as he fell to the floor. Towering over, Saruman reared back to land another, this one more damaging, when a thought stilled his hand.  
  
The loss of the seeing stone was disastrous, yes. But, a complete loss? He realized, no, it was not. Time was the enemy of Gandalf and his mob; it was only a matter of time before the Free Peoples were routed. Each day that passed, Sauron’s power multiplied. Time worked against Gandalf; for Saruman, time would be a comfort. He would use what little remained to contemplate, to reflect, to plan for when the world changed. He would need time to prepare, to prepare to take his place of power alongside the Dark Lord.  
  
“Leave Orthanc? Not until it is time for me to rule.”  
  
A swift kick to the prostrate Grima, and Saruman dismissed those gathered below, their petty interference no longer his concern. He had offered, they had refused. Let the lot of them die. He walked out of the light and greeted the darkness of Orthanc. Smiling, he shut the doors, and drew the curtains. Let Gandalf run himself ragged. He will see his folly soon enough. Just give him time.   
  
  
*****  
  
  
_“Give me that, Peregrin. Give that to me now.”_  
  
Sitting in the back seat of a green Tahoe with a snoring Merry tucked into his shoulder, and a dead silent Legolas on the other side, Pippin daydreamed about seeing that black ball again. His fingers tingly warm where he had gripped the unbelievably polished surface. Heavier, but about the same size as a bowling ball, Grima’s projectile had come to rest right at his feet. Almost like the schmuck had aimed it at him, like maybe the black orb was meant to be his. _Yeah, I like the second one better. Meant to be mine._  
  
_“That is not for the likes of you, Peregrin. Give it to me now!”_  
  
The memory of Gandalf’s patronizing words made him squirm, which, in turn, made Merry snuggle deeper and Legolas shift further away. _I’m the one that found it, why did I have to give it up? ‘The likes of you.’ What the hell does that mean? The likes that faced Ringwraiths, survived orcs, lived through the Battle of Isengard? Those are the kind of likes you’re talking about, Gandalf?_ The little boy fantasy of laser beam eyes, like Cyclops from the X-Men, hit Pippin as he stared at the back of Gandalf’s head in the seat before him. The old man had demanded he give up the black orb, nearly snatched it out of Pippin’s hands, folding it away in his white cloak, the object of fascination sat on the old man’s lap, arm wrapped protectively around, keeping it out of sight. But, not out of Pippin’s mind.  
  
_Have every right to look at it. I am a grown man and a member of the Fellowship. I think if I want to look at a lousy black ball, I should - treated like a child, like I’m too stupid to do anything ‘cept smile and nod. I mean, really, what harm can it do if I just hold the damn thing? Gandalf is so persnickety sometimes. Always has to be the one in charge. Well, he has to sleep some time, right?_  
  
The caravan traveled back to a place called Edoras. Everyone would relax there while the big wigs thought up battle plans and how to face Sauron. Pippin and Merry would be making plans of their own, like home and getting the hell away from all of this. _We’ll be there for at least a couple of days Aragorn said. That should give me plenty of time. Just one peek, that’s all I want, one more peek into the black ball, then I can go home happy. Who could object to that? What trouble will my peek cause?_ None, for Pippin did not plan on revealing his idea to anyone, not even the man who drooled against his shirt. _Just one look,  that’s all I’m going to take, one look. You’ll never know I’m gone. In and out. That’s all, I promise._ He leaned his head to Merry’s. _One look and then it’s all over. I promise, Merry. One look, and then we can go home._  
  
  
  
  
 


	17. Chapter 17

**The Ring Goes South**  
Chapter Seventeen  
  


 

 

  
Frodo looked under the bed.   
  
Sam called from the bathroom. “That's your last pair of contacts you got in, ya know.”   
  
Frodo looked under the desk.   
  
Sam called from the bathroom. “Maybe you should think about putting on that mithril thing Bilbo gave you. We are going to Mordor today after all.”   
  
Frodo looked in the closet.   
  
Sam called from the bathroom. “Don't mind telling you not excited about those Stairs, and not just because they were the dip shit's idea. Just don't sound safe.”   
  
Frodo gave up looking. “Damnit!”   
  
Teeth brushing called from the bathroom.  “whswng?”   
  
“Can't find my sneakers! Can't find my damn shoes!”

“Myfheoor.”

A quickie glance away from TV - one pair of beat-up black Converse. “I'm a fucking moron.”  
  
“Mifwlshir?” A Sam spit. “Think 'bout my suggestion?”   
  
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He slipped right foot into his sneaker, eye on CNN and their coverage of a freak flood that took out most of the real estate along the Schuylkill River last night, a total loss, authorities unable to explain…left foot hovered over shoe…the hardest hit was a place, near Philly called - “No fucking way!”   
  
“Was that yeah, or no fucking way to my shirt idea?”   
  
“Sam, come in here, you've got to see this!”   
  
“See what?” Frodo's command followed, and Sam back into the room, combing hair this time.   
  
“On the TV, it's Isengard.”   
  
“And that means…?”   
  
“Isengard is where -”

“Don’t forget to to tie your shoes.”

“OK, ok,” bed propped, eye roll tied loose laces into perfect sloppy knots, “like I was saying, Isengard’s Professor Saruman’s place. Well, last night it was totally trashed.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And that means we've one less enemy chasing us,” safety protocol completed, foot back on floor, Frodo could concentrate on Sam, “and that means -” a double take, “you really shouldn’t tempt me like that.”

Looking down, only a towel covering lower half. “Sorry, Frodo. I'll get dressed.”   
  
Eyes raked hungry up and down Sam's body. Always muscular and well built before, the last several weeks all the walking and exercise had chiseled chest and arms fine, water droplets missed after his shower clinging to those hard edges, accentuated this new definition. Sandy brown chest hair, not yet matted down by his usual oversized t-shirt, lay in fluffy dismay, pale nipples peeking through. The towel, small like the rest of the room, afforded a peeking glimpse of thigh with just a hint of curly golden hair. Sam was brushed, clean, polished and gorgeous. He had even refrained from shaving like Frodo wanted. “You do and I'll kill you!”   
  
“Can't believe I'm saying this but, now's not the time, Frodo.” Responsible voice of reason and skimpy towel back to the bathroom. “Somebody could come looking for us any minute. And we don't want to start anything we can't finish.”   
  
Mind of seduction and sex close behind. “Don't think you can flash a little skin at me and walk away, Sam Gamgee,” the purr leaning on the bathroom door jam, “one might call you a tease. I don't like a tease, Sam.”   
  
“No teasing, Frodo.”   
  
“Well, you have my attention now. What are you going to do with it?”   
  
“Think I should get dressed, and we get on the road,” scant few toiletries thrown hastily into Ziploc bag, “the sooner we leave, the sooner our business gets done.”  
  
Frodo sidled into the room to take up a position directly behind, a plastering directly behind, and hands began to travel the planes and contours of Sam's body, palms warming his skin. “We have all the time we want. I say what goes. A Ringbearer perk.”  
  
As much as he tried to ignore those eyes leering back at him from the bathroom mirror – _Don’t look! Be the adult here, we can’t, no time and Frodo is fragile, Frodo is failing, Frodo is so beautiful, so – don’t look! -_ what his ministrations were doing, it’s not called an involuntary response for nothing. One night - _only one night?_  - without sex, and yet he wanted to take Frodo right there against the sink, wanted it so badly his _teeth_ felt his raging hard-on. Sam wanted Frodo. _Goddamn, I want Frodo!_ But, that did not translate to could/should take Frodo. “That's right, you ARE the Ringbearer,” voice kept light, expression neutral as he turned around, gently pushing his greatest temptation away, “and we want you to stop being the Ringbearer ASAP, right?”   
  
Access to Sam's back lost, Frodo just as delighted to run fingers through chest hair instead. “Want to have some fun, Sam, want to have some fun with you.” Grabbing a nipple, Frodo pinched, and when Sam opened his mouth to protest, Frodo attacked, teeth bared. “Want you, Sam,” all of his body weight, pushing Sam back across the sink.   
  
“Shit! Frodo!” Mumbled out around a driving tongue, “not so hard!” The counter dug into the small of back as Frodo dug into his mouth, could not breathe, Frodo's assault so fierce, bottom lip scraped along teeth, drawing blood, Sam not so gently shoved back. “That's enough!”  
  
But, Frodo would not be denied. His little boy pouty voice, endearing usually now coming up on creepy, looked at Sam out from underneath lush eyelashes. “I want you, Sam, want you now.” Taking Sam’s hand, Frodo placed it on his own need. “See? That’s what you do to me. I want you, Sam,” hand forced down, “want you to stick it in me ‘til I squeal.”   
  
_Cheesy porno dialogue, really?_ “Come on, Frodo, don’t -”  
  
“You want me, too, I know you do.” Sliding upward, knee moved legs apart, knocking Sam off balance. “See, I told you,” pressing against erection, “God, you are so hard! Hard just for me.”  
  
Sam had to snatch at the counter to keep from toppling over. “Frodo, just stop.”   
  
“Why should I stop, Sam? This is what I want. I want you. And obviously, you want me, too,” point emphasized by enfolding what bulged under towel huge, “see? Told you. Sam wants his Frodo.”   
  
He was right, of course. Sam _did_ want his Frodo, body twitched with anticipation just imagining Frodo all sweaty beneath his hands and the sensation of their cocks slick sliding brought on heartbeat skipping. The clean smell of Frodo inundated senses, his breath on skin, the heat of his desire, until all Sam could do was close his eyes and moan with pleasure. _Wrong, this is so, so right – no, wrong!_  A tiny corner of Sam’s brain still functioned at least, and no matter that the other 99% had moved beyond foreplay to penetration, that mental sliver turned on the cold water. “Frodo, it's time to stop this. We've got to go.”   
  
“I believe we have a more urgent problem,” towel yanked away, Frodo standing back to admire the view, and oh, what a view! Sam emphatically pointing due northeast. “What were you planning on doing with that, Samwise?”   
  
_This is a test, thanks shitloads there, Illuvatar dude, a test of my love, my loyalty, my commitment to – and I so suck at tests!_ “I'm going to get dressed, then go to see Faramir. He said we could -” never got farther than one step, hand slammed to chest with such force, he stumbled back, smacking the counter. “Frodo!”

“Faramir?” Latching on, Frodo's fist squeezed round Sam's sensitive flesh. “Go to see Faramir?” He squeezed tighter. “Is that what you're planning on doing with _this_?” Fist closed even more. “Going to see **_Faramir_**?”   
  
“Jesus Christ! LET GO!” He pushed against the assault. “Enough!”   
  
Tugging, Frodo brought Sam’s face in close. “You are mine, Samwise, mine,” sweet naughty whispers, “won't share you with anyone. Not Faramir, not Rose, not anyone. You are mine and mine alone.” Frodo’s kiss deep and long, a full five minutes long, exploring every crevice of Sam’s mouth, tongue licking along lips and teeth, very breath shared and stolen. Finally breaking away, Frodo’s smile sincere sin, “Sam, you are mine,” fist eased, and pumping began, slow, smooth strokes, creating just the right amount of friction to bring Sam back to full bloom. “Sam, you belong to me only.”   
  
Oh, what to do, what to? Should – _Walk away, put an end to this crazy, little scary sex game._  A thumb softened into slit. “Well…” Would – _never stop, Frodo, never, EVER fucking stop!_  Utterly exposed, a vanity bracing spread eagle, eyes drifted shut, mental sliver resigning in protest, mouth opening to a soft ‘oh’ of ecstasy. “…shit.”

  
“You are mine, mine.” Hot lips traced the line of jaw, skilled right hand plied engorged flesh, the other working at the buttons of own jeans. “Mine, mine, mine.”   
  
The Twist. “Christ!” That little trick of Frodo's just at the top of each pass of his hand, right at cock’s head never ceased to turn Sam into a quivering idiot, this time no exception. “Yes, Frodo, god, yes!” When Frodo pressed his already wet cock onto sweaty thigh, riding the straining limb, Sam could almost recall something about time and leaving and falling into the pleasure hard. “Oh, fuck.”   
  
Ear lobe nibbled, rolling it back and forth between teeth. “Say it, Sam, say it,” crushing against, leaking juice spread across Sam's thigh, right hand’s pace accelerating, “want to hear you tell me, tell me you know, you understand your place.”   
  
The Twist again, harder again, Frodo's cock slipping along leg and Sam was embarrassingly close to exploding. _So close._ “Fuck, Frodo!”  
  
Tongue slobbered down to the juncture where neck became shoulder, wet circles drawn on Sam's collar bone. “Say it,” pump and twist, right hand moving faster still, “tell me you're mine.”   
  
Hips thrust into Frodo's fist, recoil smacking ass back into the sink. “Yes, Frodo, yes!”   
  
Rocking, bucking, Ziploc bag skittering to their beat, to the edge and over, hotel shampoo and deodorant rolling to find tub. Unrelenting, Frodo drilled, stretching out a shudder from the completely captured body beneath. “Say it. You are mine.”   
  
_So close, fuck, so close._ “I'm -” near to bursting forth, friction rough and tight, Frodo pounding into his body, tongue lapping at his one ticklish spot robbed Sam of any sense of self. He was what Frodo wanted him to be, he was what Frodo needed him to be. He was Frodo's utterly.      “- yours.”   
  
“Mine, Sam, mine.”   
  
“Always, Frodo.” _Closer, closer, closer._  
  
“Always,” frenzied pitch reached, Frodo grunting with each shove, “mine, mine, mine.”   
  
Muscles quivered under the strain of holding back, Sam's body accepting the severity of his lover willingly. Frodo assaulted Sam everywhere, and he responded in kind. “Always been yours.”   
  
Right hand pawing, groin smashing, mouth drooling. “Mine, mine, my treasure, mine.”   
  
_Close, close, close._ Thumb slicked slit once more, only this time Twist executed simultaneously. _Now, now -_ “Fuck, fuck!” _NOW!_  Body rigid, body ready to -  
  
“Goddamn!” Mouth clamped onto Sam's flesh, sucking deep, marking him. “Fuck!”  Sam inhaling sharply through the pain, did not stop seed spurting, it oozed, warm and sticky, between clenched fingers, wringing the last of Sam's orgasm.   
  
“Mine, mine. You belong to the Ringbearer. My treasure.”   
  
Eyes fluttered open - _Where am – oh, yeah, bathroom, against the – Christ my back -_ “Jesus, Frodo -” rapidly shrinking wanked dry cock held still, sweat drippy forehead resting on his shoulder, coincidentally where it stung like a son of a bitch, “- that hurt!”   
  
Climax not reached yet, Frodo remained in place, humping Sam's thigh, a jolting rhythm, always intoning 'Mine' in time with his trusts.   
  
Floating down from on high, Sam kissed Frodo's sweat-soaked hair. “Frodo, that was amazing!”   
  
No answer. “Mine, mine, mine.”   
  
Return the favor, utter bliss for a blowjob, legal reciprocity and all that, Sam wanting to bring his lover to shout obscenities, too, but try as he might to move Frodo into a more comfortable, easier access position, cooperation refused. “You can let go of me now. Frodo – it’s – I’m – let -” had to pry locked up fingers off his flaccid cock – “- go!” and once released, that magical hand immediately flew up to join its at chest clutching opposite.  
  
“Mine, mine. My treasure. Mine.”   
  
_Did he just – is that why –_ stomach churned to nasty sick – _oh, fuck, no! -_ “What the fuck are you doing?” Tried to stumble away, disconnect, be rid of the disgusting, be free of the wild clutching, managing only to part upper bodies briefly, far enough to see, though, to understand everything, as Frodo burst all over Sam's thigh.   
  
“My Treasure!”   
  
“Get off me!” Sam threw it across the room, hitting the wall to a floor crumpled heap, legs awkward angels, cock still jerking out climax's last spurt. It didn't even try to break the fall, hands stayed firmly clasped around the Ring.  
  
“My Treasure.”   
  
“Goddammit, Frodo! You were fucking the Ring!”   
  
Head raised, smile enraptured, soul owned, fingers petting the simple gold band. “Mine. My Treasure. Only mine.”   
  
Sam turned away and threw up in the sink.  
  
Three sharp knocks rang through the other room.   
  
_Fuck._  
  
“Mr. Baggins? Mr. Gamgee?” A voice in the outer room. “Are you in here?”   
  
_FUCK! Don't need this right now._ Face got a quick splash of cold water. “Just a minute!” _FUCK! He used me to –_ mind hurled again.  
  
“I'll just wait out here then.”   
  
Averting eyes from the babbling, Sam retrieved his towel from the floor, and, quickly wrapping it around his waist, slipped out into the other room. The intruder had been sent by Faramir, something urgent had come up, something that required Frodo's attention. Sam promised Mr. Baggins would report to the main office immediately, and ushered the messenger back out the door, ignoring the ‘I so know what ya’ll were doing’ smirk.  
  
Sam turned to the bathroom. _Can't go in there, can't face that._ Backing up, repulsed and revulsed, Sam's legs collided with the bed, butt crashing down, head dropping to hands.  
  
_What did I do? What did I do? You tossed him across the room, that's what you did, you fucker! You threw him against the wall and then left him there, left him with his pants down around his ankles, jizz all over everywhere. You threw Frodo, then walked away._  
  
Frustration and humiliation burned bright. _He fucking used me, used my leg to fuck the Ring. Humping me like a dog, like some animal. Used me! Shot his wad for that thing. All the time, all the time he had his hands on me, he was thinking of the Ring, wanting the Ring. He didn't want me, didn't need me. That was all for the Ring. Just a fuck, just a dick he can grab and jerk, I'm nothing but a prick now, nothing but a body for him to play with. A dildo with opinions, and he’s nothing but a -_  
  
Heartsickness growled deep in his chest becoming a howl as heels of hands pounded forehead. _How can I think that? What kind of a friend am I? Not his fault, it's not him, it's the Ring, that fucking thing he carries. I know that, I KNOW that. I know the Shadow, the Ring's shadow, I've fought the shadow. How can I blame him when that thing is constantly there? It's there now, I can feel it, the fucking darkness, see it hovering over him, around him, right on him. Always there. Never leaves him alone, never absent, never gone. It was the Ring, the Shadow, that's what was fucking with me, that's what was touching me, jacking me -_  
  
Cough and gag and retch, stomach heaving violently even though empty. _It corrupts everything, taints everything, takes everything. The one pure thing in my life, the one thing I trusted above all else, our love, the Ring has turned into a cheap fuck on a bathroom sink. I hate It, Hate It, HATE IT! It's taking him, stealing him, each day I feel less and less of him as the shadow blocks him out. Every hour there is less and less for me to hold on to. I try, I really try, I try so fucking hard to keep him here, here with me, but It's too strong, too evil, too much. Who am I against The Ring? Just a store clerk, a schlub from Brooklyn, not special. I'm nothing. Who the fuck do I think I am going against The Dark Lord? What the fuck was I thinking when I said I would keep him safe? I can't do this! I'm nothing! NOTHING!_

  
Fists in white-knuckled balls pushed into squinched anguished eyes. _God, I'm going to lose him! The Ring will win and he will be lost and all because I'm not strong enough to fight It! He will lose because I failed him!_   _So sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry, I failed, I lost you, let you be_

_taken. My fault, my fault, too weak, not enough, not what you need, I'm not enough, not good enough. My fault, my failure and you lose. I'm sorry!_  
  
The tears unnumbered, they escaped, cascading down face and arms to drip to feet and floor. _I love you, god, I love you! Can't think of a day where it didn't begin and end with you. Know they existed, know I had a life before - but I don't want to remember. Want only to have you. Only you. What I said in there, in the bathroom, when we were - when you asked me to say it, ya know what? I say it every day, every hour, every minute and second. I'm yours, didn't even need to ask 'cause I could never be anything else but yours. Never will be anything else, 'til the end. And even after that, if there is something beyond this life. So sorry, I'm trying, trying to keep you here, but it's a battle I seem to be losing. I'm so sorry for failing you._  
  
A slender arm slipped around Sam's shoulder, giving warmth and strength. _What the -_ Startled jerk, someone had intruded on – room empty. _Fucking great, now I’m imaging boogie -_ a tug on his right hand and fisted fingers instinctively uncurled. _Not imaginary, not crazy, it’s -_ Soft and tender, a hand slid into place, palm to palm, entwined secure. _Frodo._ He was here, right beside Sam. Not the Ringbearer, and certainly not the thing that slumped on the bathroom floor. This was Frodo, Sam's Frodo, warm and vibrant, gently and freely offering his love. _Frodo!_ Tears sprang anew. _He's not gone! He's still here! Here with me!_ Sam squeezed back and savored the sense of reassurance from the touch. _Frodo! Here_ he's _the one hurting,_ he's _the one in pain, the one lost, and he's giving_ me _comfort!_ “Frodo.” Sam leaned on the love surrounding him, drawing peace and courage. _He's still here, still fighting, still loving me._ Despite everything Frodo hadn't given in. “My Frodo.” Sadness and surrender swiped away, resolve bubbling up from within. _The Ring's strong, yeah, got that and what happened today will probably happen again. And again. And I’ll probably give in again and again. And blow chunks again and - but, I'll be ready next time. Won’t be just an object, just a dick, I’ll be strong, act smart, shove at the Shadow instead, not Frodo, won’t doubt our love, shove with everything I’ve fucking got. I'll hold on, hold on to Frodo._ The hand in his squeezed tight. _And Frodo will hold on to me._  
  
Sam re-entered the bathroom, this time Frodo by his side.

 

  
  
*****

 

  
  
“He won’t be happy about this. You know that, don’t you?”  
  
Slight, aloof, the shrug giving nothing away.  
  
“What am I saying? Not happy? He’ll be pissed as hell you let it go, especially when Bor -”  
  
A hard stare for his second-in-command reminding which side of the company ladder line they both stood. “Any other comments to share, Mablung?”  
  
He wilted under the boss’s glare. “No, Sir.”  
  
“Good.” Faramir returned to watching the car containing The Ringbearer and his companions leave Ithilien’s parking lot. “I’m sure you have plenty to attend to. Don’t let me keep you.”  
  
Mablung wisely left the boss alone.  
  
The Subaru Outback, Faramir’s personal vehicle, turned left and disappeared from sight. _That’s it, then. I allowed Isildur’s Bane to drive off to be destroyed. Against my father’s explicit instructions, the ultimate weapon has passed from Gondor’s hands._ Loud exhale with bullet dodged relief.  
  
It was gone and all that remained was to explain his actions to Father. It wouldn’t be pleasant, of that Faramir was certain. _No, it will be contentious, combative, rancorous, so like our typical Saturday night._ But, he knew he had done the right thing despite the grumblings from the break room by aiding Frodo on his journey to Mordor. The Ring obeyed only one master, could not be wielded for good, or locked away in the White City’s vaults. Sauron’s evil defiled all who touched it, and if it could turn one as strong as Boromir with its corrupting hand, the only solution had been to facilitate its destruction.  
  
Of course, he could always not fully report Frodo’s visit, lose that in a paper stack, too, and continue to hide in Ithilien where he had been banished. But, he refused to lie, even though one of omission. Father needed to hear, to learn what his obsession with the Ring had cost him. _But, how do I tell him? What is the best way to tell a father his favorite son died a rapist?_ With all of Faramir’s education and study, in all the languages spoken fluently,  he did not possess the words to bring comfort in the face of that truth.  
  
“Faramir,” Mablung’s voice scratching out from the two-way radio, “Minas Tirith’s on the phone.”  
  
_Talk about lousy tim -he knows. He knows what I’ve done, why else would he – this early in the – he_   ** _knows._** Faramir a trifle spooked at his father’s intuitive skills. _It just left the premises, for Pete’s sake, and he already – like he’s got some sort of crystal ball or something._ “Be right there,” not at all looking forward to this conversation, he headed for the front doors, “I’ll take the call in -”

He stopped.  
  
_I can’t do it this way, impersonal, detached. I’ve got to break this terrible news in person._ That would mean returning before being called and put him in the direct line of fire, something Faramir had tried to avoid if at all possible. This conversation, however, this one between father and second son, should not transpire over the phone or through email. Denethor should hear the news from one who loved Boromir as well. They would be able to grieve together as what remained of their family. _Faced with the stark reality of his actions, maybe Father will see.  Maybe the loss of Boromir will not be completely in vain._  
  
“On second thought, Mablung,” Faramir jogged to the motor pool, “tell my father not to hold for me. Tell my father - _I love him, and I want him to be proud of me – “_ I’m coming to Minas Tirith.”  


 

  
*****

 

  
  
Sam watched the clock in the dash click over from 11:59 AM to 12:00. _Thank god! One of the worst mornings of my life is finally over!_  
  
His hat-trick of disasters started with the bathroom. Not the mind-blowing sex, but the incident with Frodo and the Ring afterwards. Fortunately, Frodo didn’t remember. Upon re-entering the bathroom, Sam had found him passed out, pitched over to one side. Even while the evidence of their tryst was washed from legs, groin and hands, he remained unconscious. It was not until Sam struggled boxers and jeans back up Frodo’s slim hips, did he come back, and wonder what the fuck  had happened, why he was lying bare ass on the floor. Sam lied and apologized everything away as a result of his discarded bath towel that Frodo found had with his foot after taking a leak, an accident just waiting to happen – “All my stupid fault, Frodo.” - due to Sam’s negligence. Frodo accepted the apology with a ‘you’re full of shit, Sam’ cocked eyebrow.  
  
Number two on his list came in the form of the fucktard that lay snoring and drooling in the back seat of the car. “Pissing in the fountain.” That’s where Faramir’s men had found Gollum, shit faced, belligerent and very delusional. Hardly spoke while under the influence and in the care of Ithilien’s guards, but, he certainly had plenty to say to Sam this morning. Before climbing into the car, Gollum had insulted Sam’s attire, called into question his parentage, teased him about his weight, his accent, his shiny new hickey, and made one too many thinly veiled remarks about why Frodo was limping. Sam’s move to rearrange Gollum’s face barely interrupted by Frodo. “We need him.” Sam accepted that reason with a begrudging scowl, and a side order of one fingered salute.   
  
Faramir and his incessant questions about his brother completed the trio of disasters. He wanted to know who, what, when, why, where and how. Following Frodo’s wishes, Sam had avoided any direct answers while packing the vehicle they’d be taking to Mordor, but, Faramir would not be put off any longer. The insinuation that Frodo had had a hand in Boromir’s death the straw that broke Sam’s promised silence. Speaking pointedly, succinctly with lots of gestures and affronted shouting so there could be no misunderstanding, Sam spilled the whole story of Boromir, Frodo and the Ring, sparing neither party involved, nor any of the grimy details. Faramir had accepted the sordid story with stony silence.  
  
As they drove away from Ithlien, heading to Mordor, Sam’s mood, coming and going, unredeemably broody dark. But, that crappy morning had passed without further shit slinging, and now that the afternoon was here, storm clouds were beginning to part.

 Determined to stay connected to Sam while he napped and not content to just hold hands, Frodo had solved the problem of two bucket seats by mushing their jackets down and around the console in the middle, making it soft enough for him to lie across and reach Sam. His head lay snuggled in Sam’s lap, and the tactile sensation of Frodo’s hair slipping though fingers brought comfort to them both.  
  
Spitting rain dotted across the highway, low-hanging mist cutting the buildings and farms breezing by the car windows from the same two-dimensional cloth. The heater hummed, and Gollum snored, windshield wipers keeping time to the murmurings of Elton John from the radio. Frodo was at peace and Sam’s tensions eased.  
  
This was it, the last part of their journey. They were heading to Mordor, where Frodo would fling the Ring into the fire and at last be free. Despite eagerness to see this whole fucking nightmare end, Sam drove at an even pace, obeying the speed limit. He wanted to savor this moment of calm for as long as he could. This little snippet of time where no one chased them, their attention was not drawn to the direness of their situation, and it was not the Ringbearer nestled into him, but simply Frodo, the love of Sam’s life. He held on fiercely, coveting with both hands, understanding that this serenity would unquestionably be their last.  
  
Something, a voice, someone, interrupted Sheryl Crow, Sam unsure of which of the sleeping forms spoke out of its dreams.   
  
“My Treasure.”  
  
The mumblings came not from just one, though, both seats spoke, back and front, Frodo and Gollum, each word imbued with sensual longing.  
  
Gollum, each word imbued with sensual longing.  
  
“My Treasure.”  
  
Gollum’s grasping hand was empty, but Frodo’s cradled the Ring.  
  
“My Treasure.”  
  
Sam nudged the car’s speed up to 85.  
  
 


	18. Chapter 18

**The Ring Goes South**  
Chapter Eighteen

 

  
  
_Wasting away again in Margaritaville.  
Searching for my lost shaker of salt.  
Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,   
But, I know…Hell, it could be my fault._  
  
  
Legolas closed the back door, shutting out sloppy slurred rendition of that timeless Jimmy Buffet classic. The victory party was in full swing, liquor and congrats flowing freely. He had no desire to indulge in either.  
  
Rain lingered on the air as he walked out across the field, the grass deeper here than in front, and soon pants legs dripped with the late evening dew. No planned destination in mind when leaving the party, he just could not stay inside any longer, could not stand pretending to be happy about Helm’s Deep. He had to get out, away, apart before his heart splintered further.  
  
Logically, he had no right to harbor resentment at those who celebrated, they had risked their lives and survived. They were giddy with relief, some even stunned at their good fortune, and they chose to display those feelings by getting shit-faced drunk. Take Merry and Pippin. Their tale of perseverance punctuated by outward injuries, inner demons on shoulders, they stood proudly on a tabletop singing more for their own release than anyone else’s enjoyment. Gandalf and Aragorn, both nursing the same drink all evening, sat, unbelievably, in a quiet corner playing chess. Theoden swapped war stories with Gamling, Eomer was killing it at darts, Eowyn graciously accepted every invitation to dance. All were ecstatic just to be alive. And Legolas left the party because he was uncertain whether that was a sentiment he shared.  
  
_Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame,  
But, I know…it’s my own damn fault._  
  
The door slapped back to the frame, the sound setting the dogs to barking. Legolas did not turn to see who, that would draw attention to himself and perhaps invite unwanted company. Unpestered, alone, was his desire, so he remained still, just another dark shape in the night, waiting for this other to go back inside, re-join the party and leave him in peace.  
  
The sound of boots shuffling across wooden planks…a match striking, not an immediate return perhaps, yet still one that would respect boundaries. By the small flame eruption, Legolas caught sight of the interloper – an inward facing groan. He would not have his solitude restored any time soon.  
  
“Lovely night for a smoke, isn’t it?”  
  
Mouth kept shut tight, posture immobile.   _Just stay still. He’ll go back inside. You just have to wait him out._  
  
“So noisy in there. And stuffy. Too many people crammed into one room is enough to make anybody claustrophobic.”  
  
The dogs finally gave up and the night’s silence returned. The noisome barking preferable to malodorous pipe smoke, and the one who exhaled it.  
  
“Course, you can’t blame them for all their merry-making considering what they just lived through.”  
  
Concentration devout on the grove of apple trees standing at the edge of the green, the few remaining leaves clinging to the spidery branches, staunchly refusing to admit that Autumn was running things now. _Just ignore him and he’ll go away._  
  
“Then there are those that are raising a glass in remembrance, for a last tribute to those who fell. Reminds me of a good, old-fashioned Irish wake. Celebrate the person’s life, not their passing, that’s what I always say.”  
  
_You say that and a whole lot more._ The bait dangled untouched, Legolas refusing to grab at the line.  
  
“Seems cruel to the dead to do otherwise, don’t you think? Hiding their memory under grief and pain. Not sharing the fallen life with others who may not have known them. Not spreading the memory across time. Kinda like we bury the dead twice, you know?”  
  
And the unimaginable occurred, agreement with those verbal blatherings – a head shake to clear the insanity.  
  
“A loved one should be remembered. Talked about, shared. Especially if the dearly departed was held close to the heart. Say, like a lover, for instance.”  
  
This inane monologue now drifting into territory that brushed a little too close, Legolas squirming in soggy shoes.  
  
“A lover deserves more than a wreath and a parlor full of folks eating finger-food. A lover deserves no less than a full accounting told to all who can hear of what made hearts sing, bodies tremble and lives fulfilled. To do less would be to toss them onto the refuse pile with all those other things that were of importance one day, then junk the next. Don’t see how anyone could stay silent in that situation. Makes you think the love was not even -”  
  
“Do not speak of that which you are ignorant.” The fish finally jumped at that nasty barbed hook. “You didn’t lose anyone, because you don’t have anyone TO lose. Ever been married? A longtime partner?” His questions received no reply. “Tell me this, then, when was the last time you even went on a date?”  
  
A few puffs of smoke while the answer was contemplated. “Nineteen-ninty-eight.”  
  
Legolas snorted. “Just as I thought. No experience whatsoever. Don’t talk to me about the proper way to grieve a lover when your heart has never been torn asunder.”  
  
“Just because I’m a confirmed old bachelor does not mean I know nothing about love, or lovers. I know it when I see it.”  
  
Incredulity marched forward, stepping into the pool of light the sconces by the door provided. “You know love? Oh, this ought to be good. OK, tell me about love.”  
  
The porch door opened and raucous laughter filtered out, the latest dance mix rattling the windows of the great hall, the party still in full swing.  
  
“Legolas. Gimli.” Aragorn inclined his head at each man as he walked down the steps and continued towards the stables. He passed without any further acknowledgement.  
  
Legolas waited until sure he would not be overheard, then question posed once more. “Tell me, Gimli, if you’re the expert, tell me all about love.”  
  
Spent ashes tapped out, pipe was stowed safely in pocket. “OK. I’ll tell you by example. Take those two Karaoke knuckleheads in there. The love they share is like a children’s birthday party, all giggles and fun, filled with surprises and wonder. You want to laugh with joy just watching them.”  
  
A big enough person to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that Gimli’s assessment of that relationship was nigh on perfect. Merry and Pippin, perpetual frat boys. But, one an authority on love does not make.  “Any other examples?”  
  
“Frodo and Sam. As deep as the core of the universe, that’s their love. Endless, timeless, woven into the fabric of life. One exists solely for the other and would die if their other half were denied them. Must say it was almost exhausting just being around them sometimes.”  
  
_That’s two for two. Damn_! Crossing arms over his chest, Legolas jutted out his chin in a challenge. “OK, those were easy. Hearts worn on their sleeves and all that. Let’s try something a little less obvious, more subtle. Tell me about –"  
  
“You and Haldir?” Gimli didn’t give Legolas a chance to protest for going there. “Like a finely tempered sword, blended with steel and iron, forged in the flames of a smith’s fire. Hammered into shape again and again, each metal strengthening the other, every trip back to the heat producing a stronger blade than before, one that is honed to razor sharpness through its many trials on the whetstone. In the end, you have a weapon that is indestructible. Am I right?”  
  
_That’s it. The impeccably precise assessment of - and it came from an engineer?_  Shock, and some dismay, sat down on the step below. “How did you come to be so wise in matters of the heart?”  
  
“Keen observer of human kind, Legolas. When one does not participate, it gives more time to watch and learn.” A smile with a pinch of smugness. “That and I watch a lot of Lifetime TV.”  
  
Legolas was adrift. For the first time since the Industrial Revolution changed the face of Europe, his constant would not be there when he reached out searching for his place to belong. But, no more tears could be shed for Haldir. Inside, Legolas was wrung completely dry. “This is hard. Being one.”  
  
“Can give you pointers on that. Been doing it a long time.”  
  
Loneliness rolled across as the thick fog presses in from the sea, turning everything to a white blankness, and he could not see his way through. “Don’t know what to do, Gimli.”  
  
A comforting hand on grief’s shoulder. “A friend can help. Please allow me to be a friend. Just follow my lead, Legolas. I’ll steer you in the right direction.”  
  
“Don’t know where to start.”  
  
Taking out his pipe, Gimli proceeded to pack it for another smoke. “Well, if you’re asking my opinion…”  
  
Inconceivable! Petition advice from the boorish for such a personal intimate matter? White nothingness beckoned to swallow. “For the first time, yes, I am.”  
  
“Then the best place to start is Haldir.” Legolas shuddered at the name. “All I know about his guy is the asshole I met at the Institute. Something tells me there was much more to him than that self-satisfied smile of his.”

“Much more.”  
  
“Then, I want to hear it. Tell me all about Haldir.”  
  
Bracing stiff, unsure of strength against those memories, Legolas opened the door just a smidgen…worry unnecessary, the one twinkling brightest kissed on a naughty grin.  
 “ALL about Haldir?”  
  
“What?” Gimli didn’t understand the innuendo. “All about -” and then he most definitely did. “Christ, NO! Not that, don’t want to hear about that! Anything, but that!”  
  
The two shared a laugh, then Legolas shared his heart. The fog within, while still low-hanging, seemed to thin a bit and now he could see out to the horizon.   
  
  
  
  
*****

 

  
  
Black knight moved up and over.  
  
“Don’t know what to make of those pictures the guys found. Why would Saruman be stalking Bilbo?”  
  
White pawn brought out one.  
  
“Besides the obvious, you mean?”  
  
Black bishop across the board, takes pawn.  
  
“He could not have known the Ring was at Bag End with Bilbo. If so, he would have moved on it sooner.”  
  
White rook takes bishop.  
  
“No, I don’t believe Saruman had any idea the Ring was in Bilbo’s possession. Not to sound conceited, but I think his interest in the Shire had a little more to do with me than anything else.”  
  
Black queen takes rook.  
  
“You? Why in the world-?”  
  
White queen moves in for the kill.  
  
“Checkmate. Couldn’t fathom the idea that I would enjoy the conversation and company of Bilbo and his nephew over his own. There had to be a more sinister and hidden meaning to my many visits to Bag End.”  
  
Aragorn tipped his king over. “Was there? An ulterior motive, I mean?”  
  
Gandalf was hurt. “I like Bilbo, our talks. Isn’t that enough?”  
  
He just shrugged, setting the pieces back for another game. “It is for me.”  
  
Scanning the milling party crowd, he caught sight of Gimli leaving out the back door, the execution of “Margaritaville” continued to hold a large audience, Merry and Pippin soaking up the attention. “And I enjoyed Frodo’s company was well. Such a keen mind for one so young.”  
  
Aragorn studied the board, strategizing an opening move. “You have no idea where he and Sam are, do you? No word?”  
  
White pawn moves one.  
  
“No. Nothing to report from Rivendell, Galadriel and Celeborn have heard nothing, and all the messages left at Minas Tirith have gone unanswered.”  
  
Black pawn moves one.  
  
“You left a message asking after Frodo and the Ring?”  
  
White knight up and over.  
  
“Please! Don’t insult me, Aragorn. I can make subtle inquiries without giving away the game. Does greatly concern me, though, that Denethor has refused to take my calls.”  
  
Black knight up and over.  
  
“His hands are full with Sauron drooling over his shoulder to get to Gondor. And then there’s Boromir.”  
  
White Queen takes knight.  
  
“The Steward’s behavior has been a bit erratic for some time, even before the Council at Elrond’s, I’m afraid.  Would go a long way in easing my mind if there were someone in the White City whom I could trust to lead the people properly.”  
  
Black queen takes knight.  
  
“Gondor will fight no matter who’s at the helm”  
  
White queen moves across the board.  
  
“But will Gondor be victorious if deprived of its true leader? Checkmate.”  
  
Aragorn put the pieces back to begin the game again, steering the conversation to a less uncomfortable topic. “Whether word has reached Minas Tirith or not, I am sure Frodo is still alive. If the Ringbearer had fallen there would be no way to keep something that big under wraps.”  
  
“Can’t help worrying about him. Feel responsible, you know.”  
  
He fiddled with his rook for a moment, but took his hand away, looking for a less obvious opening move. “Frodo is in better hands than could be provided by all of us combined.”  
  
Gandalf twirled the tiny pink and green umbrella from his drink, waiting for opponent to make up his mind. “Ah, yes, Samwise. Stroke of genius convincing him to accompany Frodo.”    
  
“Don’t think he needed you to convince him of anything. Sam would follow Frodo anywhere. They’re connected at the hip.”  
  
“What about Frodo and Sam?”  
  
Pippin stood by the chessboard, bouncing on the balls of feet, face glistening with sweat, the stink of hops hovering. “You’ve heard from Frodo and Sam?”  
  
“Frodo and Sam? You know where they are?” Merry appeared at Pippin’s side, just as excited, just as smelly. “Are they OK? Where are they? When will they be coming, ya’ know -”  
  
Pippin dashed in at the breath. “Did they destroy the Ring? What didn’t you tell us? Can we talk to them?”  
  
“Gentleman, please!” Gandalf held up hands for silence. “Stop moving and jabbering for one second!”  
  
Merry grabbed Pippin’s arm, held him in place, a less than successful attempt to follow Gandalf’s instructions. “Have you heard from Frodo and Sam?”  
  
Gandalf sighed. “Alas, no, we have not.”  
  
The two smiling faces fell. “Oh. But, you said, I heard you mention their names.”  
  
“Only to say that no news is good news, Peregrin,” the old man explained, “the longer Frodo’s mission to Mordor stays a secret, the better his chance of success. Remember that. No blabbing.”  
  
“Oh, like who would I tell?”  
  
“So, this no news thing,” a burped Merry pause, “You think it’s good? That Frodo and Sam are OK?”  
  
“That is my sincerest wish.”  
  
Elsewhere a dance mix throbbed through the speakers, the bass loud enough to jiggle the chess pieces across the board. Eowyn begged off this dance, and plopped down at the long bar to take a breather. Theoden stopped his latest story to give his niece a kiss on the forehead.  
  
“Sorry we interrupted your game,” a whisper in Merry’s ear, bloomed a wicked smile on his face. “We’ll say good night, then.”  
  
Pippin’s stretch and yawn, oh, so convincing. “Kinda’ wasted. Going to call it a night.”  
  
“Oh, yes, can see that you’re both very tired.” Merry’s flushed cheeks, the sly spark in Pippin’s eye, the anticipatory lean into each other, _definitely_ all signs of extreme fatigue. “Then it’s off to bed with you two. _Sleep_ well.” The knowing wink had Aragorn very interested in the chess board.

“Good – uh…” not so fast there, Merry, snapped up short when Pippin stopped cold.

“Yes, Peregrin, is there something else?”  
  
“You coming to bed any time soon, Gandalf?”  
  
Two, bushy white eyebrows shot straight up. “Now, why would you care about an old man’s bedtime plans?”  
  
“Just didn’t want to disturb you if you were, seeing as how your room is right next to ours, and well,” eyebrow waggle as raucous sex signal, “you know.”  
  
Aragorn’s study became  super intense.  
  
Gandalf chuckled. “In that case, dear boy, I think I shall have a night cap.” He watched a particular hand sneak around to caress a certain butt. “Or two.” With fingers entwined, Merry and Pippin hurried across the room, stopped to speak to Eowyn briefly, then out and down the back hallway. “Ah, young love.”  
  
“Young lust, more like it.”  
  
Gandalf tsked. “Now don’t go all stodgy on me, Aragorn. I seem to remember a certain young man who stood out on a ledge for three hours in the driving February rain waiting for a window to be unlatched.”  
  
“That was a long time ago, Gandalf.”  
  
“I also recall that nasty cough you developed as a result of that little stunt.”  
  
Aragorn crunched the ice left at the bottom of his highball. “Can we get back to the game, please?”  
  
“Certainly, certainly.” Gandalf stared at the board for a minute. “I’ll never forget the look on Elrond’s face when he walked out on his balcony to check on the report of a jumper perched on the side of his building.”  
  
“Moment I’d like to forget.”  
  
“Oh, my! What was the excuse? The one you gave for being outside Arwen’s bedroom-"  
  
Aragorn tipped over his king and stood up. “Thank you for the games, Gandalf. Think I’ll stretch my legs a bit. Good night.”  
  
Gandalf followed Aragorn’s progress through the crowd to the back door. His gaze also caught the look that passed between Isildur’s heir and Theoden’s niece.  
  
Gandalf’s mouth tightened into a frown. Young love indeed.

 

  
  
****  


 

  
“Nope, didn’t seem busy to me, just sitting there playing chess with Gandalf and talking about Fro – Ow! What’d you that for?” Ass rubbed right where Merry’s hard pinch had landed.  
  
“I’m sure he would love to have the company of so beautiful a woman, uh…”  
  
“Eowyn Riddermark,” hand out to shake on their introduction, “this is my family’s farm.”  
  
“Merry Brandybuck, pleased to meet you, and this is Pippin Took.”  
  
She shook them in turn. “Oh, now I recognize you! You two are the heroes of Isengard!”  
  
A bit of Merry swagger. “Heroes? Not really. We just did what was necessary.”  
  
Eowyn gave them a bright smile. “A hero is not measured by the size of his deed, Merry.”  
  
“And speaking of doing what is necessary," incessant tug to keep on moving, “and the matter of size, there’s some urgent business that needs your complete attention, Mr. Brandybuck.”  
  
“What? Oh, yeah. Go ahead, interrupt their game. Nice to meet you - ” impatience dragging Merry away from the great hall. “- Eowyn.”  
  
_From the stories told, not exactly what I had envisioned._ Rueful head shake turned eyes to the far corner of the big room just in time to see Aragorn rise. He spoke tersely to the old man in white, then nearly stormed off through the crowd. She didn’t realize she was staring until his eyes locked with hers. The moment of contact brief, before he marched away to the door, but the heat of the stare was enough to melt Eowyn’s knees.

Blaming her recent brush with mortality, or the copious amount of alcohol she had consumed so far this evening, Eowyn took one more long swallow on her drink, and escaped out the front door. She was going after him, and what ever happened, happened. She wasn’t going to allow herself to over analyze her motives, try to justify her actions, or rationalize her emotions. She followed Aragorn for the simple reason that she wanted him.  
  
Instinctively, Eowyn headed to the stables, but thought at first she had made a mistake; they sat silent and still. A small nicker and a hushed voice drew her attention to a very familiar stall down the row. She gasped, peering in at Brego. The horse usually terrified of strangers stood calm under Aragorn’s hands. He caressed the bay’s flanks, rubbing down with the nap of hair, following the contours of the powerful muscles, Brego seeming to melt into the touch, chuffing with pleasure. Aragorn murmured as he massaged, the words foreign to Eowyn’s ears, but apparently music to Brego’s. Even her touch, the only one the horse would allow since Theodred’s death, had not given such obvious comfort as this man’s. A little disconcerting and a lot exciting.  
  
“What, what are you doing?”  
  
“Brego deserves a long rest after what he’s experienced,” Aragorn not really answering her question, “he should be retired. No more work, no more stress.” Rubdown complete, he whispered once more into Brego’s ear, the horse nuzzling his neck in return. He stepped out of the stall and brushed by a mesmerized Eowyn. “I came in and heard his frightened whinnies. I sought only to help. Hope I did not overstep my bounds.”  
  
“No, no, of course not.” She shut the stall door, a content horse left dozing inside. “Brego was my cousin’s horse. Won’t let anyone touch him, except me.”  
  
“He’s a fine animal.”  
  
“What did you say to him? I’ve been around horses my whole life and never seen anything like that. What did you say to him?”  
  
Aragorn leaned heavily on the stable wall, staring down at his feet. “Just something I learned as a child. Nonsense words, really, a lullaby of sorts.”  
  
“A lullaby?” Enigmatic since the beginning, Aragorn now defied any description Eowyn could summon. World War II vet that looked in life’s prime. Deadly with both gun and sword, yet with hands gentle enough to soothe a scared animal. Tense and reserved, open and caring. Born to greatness, lived in humbleness. Leader and follower. Lover and solider. Aragorn did not fit into any category Eowyn could imagine. She could not even place him in one of his own, for he would soon change, reveling to her something new, adding one more dimension to his character, adding one more mind boggling layer. “Who _are_ you?”  
  
“Who am I?” The question repeated. “What do I look like to you, Eowyn?” He turned his face, the half-light of the stable catching his eye just right for Eowyn to glimpse a battle raging within. “What do YOU see?”  
  
The riptide of emotions roiling beneath Aragorn’s words so prevalent and fierce, Eowyn felt the pull from five feet away. Using her mojito lubricated courage, she reached out and took one of Aragorn’s hands. Resting in hers, it looked no different than any other. The fine lines on his palm, the calluses and scars, the dry skin on the back. This hand, which had just moments before performed a miracle, was average, ordinary even. Glancing up, she perused his face; laugh lines cut white slits in the tanned corners of his eyes. Sun freckles were barely hidden by the unshaved stubble. Hair, clean but messy showed more than a few grey hairs at the temples. This was a normal face, a face that just yesterday inspired hundreds to continue to fight against the orcs and the odds. Body slumped against the wall, a typical pose for the common man, but not for someone that had worked without rest through the night seeing that all the dead at Helm’s Deep received a proper grave. She looked at hard and soft, black and white, old and young, loud and quiet, right and wrong, special and ordinary. She looked at Aragorn and Isildur’s heir. _What do I see?_ “I see you.”  
  
The first tentative touch of their lips was the last halting thing they shared that night.  


 

  
*****  


 

  
“For Christ’s sake, does it have to be now?”  
  
Hopping on one foot while the other was slipping into sweat pants, Pippin attempted a plausible explanation. “Don’t have much control over when my bladder says ‘Pee’. What can I say, the lease is up on this evening’s beer.” Bottom half covered, he snatched at the closest shirt, Merry’s, from the pile by the door, struggling it on. “I’ll be right back. Don’t continue without me.”  
  
“Serve you right if I did just finish this myself!” Frustration shouted from the bed.  
  
“Right back, love,” whispered through the crack of the closing door.  
  
Flopping back, Merry tried to think about something other than the fact he was lying in bed, horny, hard and alone. A look down - cock twitching from the loss of attention. And they had just gotten to the good part when blowjobber had jumped up announcing a trip to the bathroom abandoning blowjobee. _Well, actually they are all good parts. Everything Pippin does is good, like when he kisses me just behind the ear. Or when he hums, his lips buzzing across my nipples. Or when his hands slide down my thighs, thumbs pushing deep into the muscles, drawing them up until he reaches –_

“Don’t do that!”

Hands snatched away from ill-advised masturbatory activity.

“Well, fuck.” Now, in definite pain, Merry needed a distraction, something to take a mind currently residing in his crotch off said crotch. _Think, think, think! What else besides Pip. And sex. And sex with Pip and –_

“Stop it!”

Wayward hands pinned under ass.

A memory search for what would help calm, take wind out of sails, over write and come – wrong choice of words, there – to his Pippin obsession, he must conjure the most the most undesirable, unerotic mental picture he could –

“Damn.”

Splashed onto mind’s screen instantly.

_My seventh grade science teacher._

The one with the lazy eye, lumpy mole and beef bouillon perfume. And problem deflated immediately.

“Sister Mary Ignatius to the rescue.”

 

 

*****

 

  
The pleas of a full bladder had not been entirely a lie, Pippin did have to, so badly he raced down the hallway, doing the potty dance. Barreling into the bathroom at full speed, one bounce off the far wall and he made it to the toilet just in time. A contented sigh as his little problem drained away.  
  
Flush. Wash the hands. Check his teeth. A little lotion to help with the dry skin on his elbows, a few swipes at his hair and he left the bathroom, flicking off the light, intending to return to their room and -  
  
_Now. Do it now. Do it now!_

Plans can change, though.

_Merry wouldn’t mind – yes, he will – Merry won’t notice – yes, he will – Merry won’t care – the hell he won’t! But, I want – I must -_  
  
Tip-toeing up to Gandalf’s door, an ear placed to the wood, listening for anything that would signal if the old man was truly having that second nightcap. Total silence. _Good._ Doorknob grabbed, slowly twisting, door peeking open a crack. The moon cast a spell about the room, fairyland twilight, just enough for mischief to roam. The bed sat untouched, uncluttered as did the dresser. A few other pieces, no other persons. _Empty._ A over-the-shoulder check for hallway traffic – _none –_ the door closing silent behind Pippin’s trespass.

A visual survey of the room – so many hiding places. _Now, if I were a big, glowing black ball, where would I –_ a move toward the obvious – yet, something pulling him back from the closet to the – cedar chest? Window seat? The –

_Bed._

The patchworked comforter, spread out to crisp corners, lay dozing against the mattress. Not on the bed.

_So, how ‘bout under?_  
  
He knelt down, leaned down, scrutched around, barked shin and strained back, finally rewarded. There, bunched up, in the corner, as far back as possible, Gandalf’s cloak. Could maybe see the glow through the thick flannel fabric already. Wiggling on stomach, he squirmed under, reaching…stretching… there! touching his prize. _Gothcha’!_ Warm fuzzy tickled at fingertips as he latched on, drawing the cloak, now very heavy with its burden, out into the moon’s sigh. With back to the wall under the window he hefted the entire bundle into his lap. Undoing the wrapping, the energy radiated under his hands as they shook with excitement and expectation.  
  
_Just one look, that’s all I want, it’s what I deserve. One look. One – oh my._  
  
Just as beautiful as he remembered - sleek and shiny with swirls of gold dipping and diving through the ebony of the sphere. One breath for calm, one second for apologies, one thought of back out – hands dived into blackness.  
  
The Sister’s lecture on Newton’s Third Law interrupted by Pippin’s anguished screams.   
  
  


  



	19. Chapter 19

**The Ring Goes South**  
Chapter Nineteen

 

 

  
  
“Jesus! It’s cold out there!” Sam shutting the hatch quickly. “Nearly froze it off!”  
  
“However wwwould you think?”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be doing something? Like scouting outside, or, better yet, falling off a ledge?”  
  
Two bloodshot eyes appeared over the edge of the back seat. “After you, Sam.”  
  
“Ignore him,” Frodo pulled his friend around and away from Smeagol’s sneer, “Come here and snuggle. I definitely don’t want it to freeze off.”  
  
A parting ‘eat shit and die’ look back at Gollum and Sam reclined in the backseat flat hatch of the Outback with Frodo spooned up behind. Frodo threw his leg over, arms went around chest, bringing them as close as humanly possible with clothes still on.  
  
“You shouldn’t let him get to you, Sam,” Frodo whispered in his ear, “he just does it to get you going.”  
  
“Glad I can entertain him,” a grumble, but most of his bad mood was burning away with the heat of Frodo’s body next to his.  
  
“Ddddon’t get comfortable. Almost ttttime to go.”  
  
The Outback had pulled off the highway in daylight. A two hour trip on back roads, another hour on dirt, then what seemed like a day and a half on what could only be described as a medieval ox cart path, they reached the end of the line; they were as close to Mordor as they could get by car. The rest of the journey must be taken by foot, and, Gollum insisted, it must be in the dark. Parking the vehicle in a thick clump of trees, Sam turned off the ignition and they had settled in to wait for nightfall.  
  
Frodo looked up at the little bit of sky he could see through the branches. “What time is it?”  
  
“After sunset, at least,” best guesstimate since watch had stopped working all the way back in that Bronx parking garage, eons ago.  
  
“You ggget ready to go, Mmmaster. Smeagol wwwill go check the pppath.” He slipped out of the car.  
  
Flipping on the small dome light, Sam reached for the packs. “Let’s get this show on the road, then.  Times a’wastin.”  
  
Well, that was a new one. “‘Time’s a’wastin’? When did we step into a bad western? Gonna’ circle the wagons next?”  
  
“You know what I meant,” a wink, “pardner.” He opened his pack and began to rearrange things. “Going to make one for the trip, which I will carry, no arguments!” He held up a finger. “You’ve got enough to lug around.”  
  
Skirmish possible, but protest over perceived weakness held in reserve for a future battle. “Don’t you think twenty bottles of water is enough? We’re not going in there for a week.”  
  
“Going to the Cracks of _Doom,_ to throw the Ring into the FIRE of its making. Sounds like a pretty hot place to me.”  
  
Ah, if only a case of Dasani were all that was required to -  
  
“Need to stay hydrated.” Reaching to the bottom of Frodo’s pack, Sam retrieved the mithril shirt. Even the thin light of the Outback caught the material, sending tiny rainbows out across the cabin. “Here, put this on.”  
  
“No, thanks, I’ll be fine.”  
  
Not an acceptable answer. “Put this on, Frodo.”  
  
Scooting back away, Frodo putting distance between, arms crossed in front as added no admittance fence. “Sam, it itches and bids in my pits and it’s just plain uncomfortable.”  
  
Usually only brought out for complaining customers and fractious relatives, Sam’s bullshit stops here voice put its foot down. “This is Mordor we’re walking into, Frodo, not SoHo. This is where those Ringwraiths came from, those Ringwraiths that tried to skewer you. Remember?”  
  
Hand drifted to his left shoulder, to the wound that still ached. “Yeah, I remember.”  
  
“Good. Put on the shirt.”  
  
“But -” A slew of obfuscations, “I – move – if -” each one sounding more petulant and childish than - “OK, OK,” he snatched the shirt from Sam, “I’ll put the disco shirt on.”  
  
“Thank you.” No gloat for the victory. “You’ve got some of those crackers left,” Sam dug further into Frodo’s pack, “we’ll take them, guess I don’t need to bother with a change of clothes, got the medical supplies.” His fingers brushed a small, solid object at the very bottom. “What the -?” Excavating it from the depths, he withdrew warmth and light - “Well, damn. Forgot all about this. Look what I - oh, Frodo.”  
  
His t-shirt off, Frodo was pushing arms through the holes when Sam glanced his way, face flushing at his crestfallen stare. “I don’t look that bad. Do I?”  
  
Ocean City, three days ago. That was the last time Sam had seen Frodo naked. Even then he had noticed how thin his lover appeared. When he had held Frodo last night, shoulder blades prominently stuck out, poking him in the chest. But, now Frodo did not look just painfully thin, he was down right emaciated. “You…” Reaching out, Sam ran hand along Frodo’s chest, fingers bumping each rib. Always pale before, Frodo’s skin was translucent, like flimsy tissue paper stretched out over bone, the scar on his shoulder the whitest of all. “God, Frodo.”  
  
Scrambling on the mithril shirt a moral imperative. “Don’t want to look, fine!” In flashing hot haste, however, he became hopelessly entangled in the fabric, twisted round, hair out the neck hole, one arm trapped above head. “Fuck!”  
  
“Here, Frodo, let me help.”  
  
“NO!” recoiling from Sam’s touch.  
  
“Frodo, stop struggling and let me help you.”  
  
He didn’t, of course, and that just made predicament worse. “Fuck! FUCK!”  
  
“Come on, just – you -” Sam finally reduced to grabbing his flaying lover by the waist and dragging him back to his lap, pinning fighting Frodo down. “Now, let’s get that shirt off and start again.”  
  
“No, don’t!” Wrestling to be free, but Sam held fast. With the other hand, he yanked the shirt off. “Stop…” Frodo’s shakes violent, from anger, from shame. “…please.”  
  
“Just rest a bit, love, just rest.” With the lightest of touches, Sam ran caresses through Frodo’s hair, trying not to spook, bringing back the calm, “Ssshhh, now,” murmurings in his ear. Several minutes of Sam ignoring Frodo’s orders to stop, before the trembling subsided and body stilled.  
  
“Better now?”  
  
A schlump of chagrin and remorse. “Yes, Sam.”  
  
Relinquishing hold on Frodo’s waist slowly, at the ready should the skittish try to bolt,  Sam put both hands to work skimming over Frodo’s shoulders, lightly massaging, worrying a stronger touch might bruise. “That wasn’t about the disco shirt, was it?”  
  
“I know what I look like, Sam.” A meeting of eyes assiduously avoided.  
  
“Then you know you are the most beautiful thing in the world to me.” Yeah, not even remotely convinced. “Beautiful…desirable…” Sam began to nuzzle at his neck, the raw ribbon of skin, right where chain scratched, light kisses only, “sexy…” a nipple brush, “tick -”  
  
“Hey!” Frodo swatted hand away.  
  
And Sam would take that pain, that and so much more for a Frodo smile. “Ready to try the shirt again?”  
  
And the schlump went supersized. “Oh, Sam.”  
  
Reassurances soft, skimming the sharp angles of Frodo’s back with tenderness. “What is it, love?”  
  
“At the risk of stating the obvious, we’re about to climb to Mordor, and I’m scared shitless.”  
  
“That makes two of us.” At Sam’s insistence, Frodo nestled closer. “We’d be insane not to be scared.”  
  
Hand found The Ring, a desperate fist. “I don’t know if I can do this.”  
  
“What was it that shrink said to you? Something about if you don’t find a way, then nobody will? She believed in you, Gandalf believed in you. So did Elrond, and Aragorn and all the rest of the head honchos.” Sam, the cheerleader, Sam, the booster club, riddled with doubts and fear, Sam trying his damnedest to be Frodo’s foundation. “It came to you ‘cause you are the only one who can do this. The only one.” Sam hugged Frodo close. “And for what it’s worth, I believe in you, too.”  
  
An all kinds of grateful kiss for a scruffy face. “That alone means everything to me.”  
  
“You’re walking into Sauron’s backyard, yeah, but you are not doing it alone, never alone.” This point, the most important point, vowed with foreheads joined.  “I’m following you, always will follow, every step of -”  
  
The back hatch snapped open. “Keep it in your pants, Samwise. Tttime to mmmove.” The back hatch slammed shut.

“Swear, one of these days I’m gonna -” with one more shared kiss, Sam sat Frodo up. “The shirt.”  
  
Resignation’s heavy sigh, Frodo raised arms. “The shirt.” Sam slipped the mithril over head, watching the fabric drop off shoulders, bagging at the neck. More like disco potato sack. “A perfect fit.”  
  
“At least it doesn’t bind anymore. But, it sure as hell still itches.” He twisted around, trying to reach between shoulders,  what remained maddeningly out of reach.  
  
Sam to the rescue, fingers scritching the exact spot. “Any ploy to get me to touch you, huh?”

“Yeah, and you fall for it every time.”  
  
“Damn right I do.”  
  
A resounding rap on the back window.  
  
“Coming!”

Mithril shirt, t-shirt, button-down and jacket, all about two sizes too large for current frame,  Frodo completely outfitted for the trek up and in. “All this seems a bit much. Like you said, fire and doom.”

“With cold as a well digger’s ass to walk through to get there,” Sam contorting sideways to toss on his coat, “can always lose layers later on.”

“You’re right, of course.”

See an opening, dive head first. “And I’m right about the asswipe, too.”

That oft argued, trod ad nauseum, beaten to a pulp equine topic not to Frodo’s liking. “Christ, Sam, give it a rest. We’re doing this, and Smeagol is -”

“OK, OK,” hands up in surrender, “I know what needs to be done, where we must go. I get it. All I’m saying is, be careful. Stay close to me, and don’t trust anyting he -”

A percussion section of raps on the back window.

“Fucking stop! We’re coming!”  
  
Hatch popped, the blast of October air stealing breath away. Hopping down first, Sam quickly hefted on the two-into-one pack before helping Frodo out.  
  
“Here,” Sting shoved through belt loop, “and put this in your pocket.” The rescued from backpack obscurity, Galadriel’s gift, a spot of pocket warmth.  
  
“But, where’s his lunch mmmoney, Mommy?”  
  
“Shut the fuck up and get moving.”

Darkness, no starlight nightlight, thick cloud cover complete. Few feet in front, that’s about as far as eyes could penetrate, about the length of a two armed chain joined by clasped hands. Blankness, no spill from civilization, the night’s customary conversationalists – crickets, tree frogs, the occasional hunting owl screech – muted silent, nothing thrived here, nothing lived here, utterly barren. Blackness, oppressive, sucking in and weighing down, omniscient and lying in wait, ravenous to consume, corruption, perversion, the void’s invitation to despair.

“This way, gentleman, this way to Mmmordor.”

 

  
  
*****

 

  
  
_Right hand. Left foot. Pull. Left hand. Right foot. Pull. Right hand. Left foot. Pull. Left hand. Right foot. Pull._  
  
“Stairs, my ass!” _Right hand. Left foot. Pull._ “When he said stairs, I thought he meant,” _Left hand. Right foot. Pull,_ “real stairs, ya know, like with steps and hand rails and landings.” _Right hand. Left foot. Pull._ “Not climbing up the side of a goddamn mountain!” _Left hand. Right foot._  
  
“It be much easier if you weren’t carrying all that weight,” derision from somewhere above.  
  
_Pull._ “What did that little shit say?”  
  
“He meant the pack, Sam,” Frodo’s weak attempt a placating, “The pack is heavy.”  
  
_Left foot. Right hand._ “Yeah, right.”  
  
When Frodo and Sam had finally caught up with Gollum, after he took off running, and them stumbling after blind, they had found him casually leaning against a solid rock face with a self-satisfied grin. “This is it. Thththe Stairs.”  
  
They had looked up. And up. And up. And up to where the rock disappeared into the clouds. Phrases like, ‘No fucking way!’ and ‘Snowball’s chance in hell!’ flew fast and free, until Frodo stopped arguing with Sam and just started climbing. Still protesting loudly, Sam followed Frodo up, falling in behind him, and that’s where he had remained ever since, guarding his lover’s back.  
  
About an hour into their climb, the rain began, slowing their already plodding pace to a mere crawl. If climbing straight up the side of a mountain in the dark using haphazardly cut niches into stone as hand and footholds was not dangerous enough, the rain, and occasional sleet, slicked the rock making each step and pull an exercise in faith.  
  
“Frodo?” _Left foot. Right hand. Pull._ "You OK?”  
  
“Stupid question, Sam.”  
  
_Pull._ “I meant besides where we are and what we’re doing. Are you OK?”  
  
“I’m fabulous. And you?”  
  
_Right hand. Left foot._ “Fucking great.” _Pull._

To Sam’s Frodo tuned ears, he sounded winded, struggling, and willing to bet, in pain. All he could see above him, through the sideways sluice of the rain, was the steady rhythm of Frodo’s feet in the repetitive motion of climbing. And over the past several minutes, that rhythm had steadily decreased.

“How much further, Smeagol?”  
  
“Nnnot too far nnnow.”  
  
_Left hand. Right foot._ “Like I’d believe anything the dickweed says,” right up on him now, Sam could hear labored gasping above his own. Intervention time. “We need to find a place to stop,” _Pull,_ “and rest.”  
  
“This is not some ssssightseeing tour!”  
  
_Right hand. Left foot._ “Fuck off! Frodo needs to rest.”  
  
“No, Sam, I’m, fine, really.”  
  
_Pull._ “Be more convincing, Frodo,” _Left hand. Right foot._ “If you didn’t wheeze between each word.” _Pull._  
  
“Got, to, keep, going. Can’t, stop.”  
  
Before Frodo could falter, bringing the far away ground splatting  - thought banished instantly -Sam reached up and grabbed the best thing to steady, ease the way, take body weight back on himself. “Let me help.”  
  
“I, think, I, can, truth, ful, ly, say,” a wheeze and a cough between now, “that, this, is, not, the, time, Sam. Take, your, hand, off, my, ass.”  
  
“I’ll keep it there for a little while longer, Frodo,” a watching eye out for a ledge, out-cropping, anything they could sit on for a few minutes to take a breather, “if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Ne, ver.” A smile for down below. “Just, an, odd, lo, ca, tion, to start, ya’, know -”

“What, you’re not up,” Frodo sent to the next step. _Left foot._ “for a little -” _Right hand. Pull. Right foot._ “experi -” _Frodo’s ass._ “-menting?” _Push._

“No, role, play, ing, or, toys, but, straight -” propelled to the next, “to, the, dan, ger -”

_Left foot. Right hand._ “Mountain climbing sex.” _Pull. Right foot._ “New meaning to the Mile High -” _Frodo’s ass._ “-club.” _Push._  
  
“No, fuck, sp, lunk, ing,” to the next.

_Left foot. Right hand._ “Splfucking.” _Pull. Right foot._

“Ropes, and har, ness, and pi, tons, shoved, in -”

“Fucking stop!” Gollum’s disgust appearing out of the mist, inches from Frodo’s head. “Stop the goddamn foreplay! Cccan’t listen ttto another -”

“Then don’t.” _Frodo’s ass._

“Wwwasting time on -” falling sinus glob missed Sam by a whisker, “mmmust be off The Stairs bbbefore the sssun.”

“Calm down, dickhead.” Push up, Frodo up. “It is hours before sunrise.” _Left foot. Right hand. Pull. Right foot. Frodo’s ass._ “And we’ve got the time to -”

“You, take time, with, fore, play?” A chuckle smooshed between hacks. “Since, when?”

“I try.” _Push._ “It’s you who’s always begging for me to -”

“Well, if, you, weren’t, so -”

“Again with the homo sex,” Gollum’s disgust disappearing into the mist, “unfffuckingbelievable.”

“Can’t keep your hands off,” _Left foot. Right hand.  Pull. Right foot. Frodo’s ass._ “Right for the big guns.” _Push._

“So, is that,” up to the next, “what, you, call, them?”  
  
_Push._ “I call them soaking wet, shriveled,”   _Left foot. Right foot. “_ freezing cold and stuck,” _Left hand._ “right next to my body at the mo -” _Frodo’s ass. Push._ “-ment.”  
  
Snide out of nowhere. “Knew it. Small balls, Samwise?”  
  
“Well, at least have I have  ‘em.” _Left foot. Right –_

“And the source all of your wit and -”  
  
Rocks and dirt trickled down, bouncing along the steps.  
  
“Ow! Shit! _Fuck_!”  
  
Squirming ass NOT an approved fingertip hanging off mountain side activity. “What? What’s wrong?”  
  
“My eyes! My goddamn eyes! Shit!”  
  
“Frodo?” Through the sleet, thrashing up there. “Frodo, you OK?”  
  
“Fuck no, Sam! Got the rock of Gibraltar in one eye and,” deep coughing, “a red hot poker jabbing me in the other!” Hand actually abandoning Ring, “Fuck!”  
  
“Gollum! A ledge, now! Got to get to someplace _now_!”  
  
“A fffew more steps, Mmmaster,” a swirling mist stutter, “a few more steps.”  
  
A grunt and shove. “Come on, Frodo, move!”  
  
“Can’t, see, where, the, fuck, I’m, going, remember? Damn this hurts!”  
  
“A fffew more steps.”  
  
“Just feel your way, Frodo, feel for the next one with your hands. I’ve got your -”  
  
“So, ea, sy, why, aren’t, you, fuck, ing - Shit!”

“Almost there!”  
  
_LeftfootrighthandrightfootFrodo’s -_ weight lost, Sam panicking. “FRODO!”  
  
“Here, Sam, up here! Fuck!”  
  
Scrambling upward, cursing as GPS to a ledge, jutting out from the rock face and burrowed into the mountain, a cave, offering shelter from the weather. First the pack, then Sam, then anxiety, up and over, the landing rough. “Frodo!”  
  
“Fuck! Fucking shit! Damn!” Foot stomping, eye squinting, Frodo bitching blind.  
  
“Take them out, you can’t go on like this.” Sam crawled to Frodo’s side. “Just take the damn things out.”  
  
“OK, OK, I’ll take them out.” Left eye pulled open, Sam’s gag turning away quick. Didn’t matter how long he and Frodo had known each other, or how long they would be together in the future, he just could not stomach watching Frodo with his contacts.  
  
“You’re all man, Sam,” Gollum’s from the shadows sneer.  
  
Pain’s relief sighed and filthy hand heel rubbed. “Damn, that hurt.” Holding last pair of contacts, Frodo searched for the impossible – a sterile place to - “Oh, fuck it.” Dumped on the ground.  
  
“Here.” Glasses placed in hand.  
  
Blinking, eyes adjusted to seeing through those lenses instead. “This is just how I want to walk into Mordor. Looking like a dweeb.”  
  
“You don’t look like a dweeb,” Frodo tugged in close.  
  
Settling in, a little trembling for dank and damp’s benefit. “OK, a dork, then.”  
  
“Not a dork either.”  
  
“OK, what do I look like then?”  
  
Sam squeezed rain out of Frodo’s hair. “Like you’re fifteen.”  
  
“Oh, thank you, that makes me feel so much better.” The warmth of Sam’s body calming the chills. “You must like them young, then.”  
  
“Only you,” arms rubbed to get the blood flowing, “Young, middle-aged, or older than dirt. As long as it’s you. That better?”  
  
An involuntary shiver. “Much. Thanks.”  
  
“You are a terrible liar, Mr. Baggins.” Frodo secure at the back of the cave, Sam retrieved his pack, dragging it over. “Another layer, I know, but let’s try this.”  
  
“OK, what don’t you carry in -” Frodo’s eyes widen in surprise. “Can’t believe you still have that!”  Forgotten, out of sight, not since that morning at the Institute.  
  
“Never turn away something free.” Whipping it through the air, Sam floated cloak around shoulders, closing the leaf shaped clasp at Frodo’s neck. “See? It has a hood. Should help with the rain.”  
  
He fingered the material, soft as silk against palm. “God, how long has it been?”  
  
Sam plopped his cloak on. “Seems like a lifetime.”

“That was out first time.”

“The first time we -”

That same passion, yet undimmed by trials, shared a remembrance kiss.

“Fucking faggots.”

“You say something, Smeagol?”

“Oh, no, not important, just talking to our -” an odd pronoun slip, “I, me, myself were – was -nnnice cloak.”  
  
A laugh bubbled up, fancy free and pure. “You know what I look like now?” A menacing pose struck - chest puffed out, sword drawn. “Like I belong in Zelda. Just need the pointy ears.”  
  
Couldn’t help it. The sight of Frodo genuinely smiling, laughing at a silly joke - how long has it been since _that_ – no burden - just -  
  
“Sam, what’s wrong?” Sting re-belt looped, Frodo to lover’s side. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Sam?”  
  
Cheeks swiped dry of silly sentiment. “Nothing, Frodo, nothing. Forget it.”  
  
“ _Sam_.” He took face in hands, kissed softly. “Didn’t mean to upset you. If it means that much, you can be Link.”  
  
“I don’t care who -” smiling and laughing and yanking his chain. “Goddammit.” Gathered up, Sam whirled around, cloaks spinning out wide. “I love you, Frodo Baggins!” Peeling giggles an echoing anathema to the black stone of the mountain. “Fucking LOVE you!”

“Even when I puke on you?”

Frodo back on his own two feet.

“Thanks, and I love you, too.” A full on mouth smack as illustration. “But, contact problem solved,” a step away, “we really need to – holy shit!”

“Whoa!” Sam caught Frodo mid-fall. “What’s – stupid, stupid, stupid, swinging you around like – what’s – you OK?”

Blinking, blink again. Head shake to clear - not quite sure what was going on with field of vision here - the cave, then black, then – now he did. “I’m fine. Just a little -”

“What?” Concern trying to cover all the bases at once. “Frodo, a little _what_?”  
  
Flames, flames and jagging lightning and in the middle the Lidless - “uh…” a scramble for distance, away, dragging them both to the edge, “- you know -”

“OK,” executive decision, Sam half-in-half leading and carrying Frodo from cave’s mouth to sturdy wall in back, “why don’t we just take five.”

“No, no time, can’t slow us down, must -” Close, closer than ever before, mere steps away now. “We’ve got to -” Seeking and searching, fingers slipping in, scratching across, the violating touch of – “I’ve got to –”

_”Frodo Baggins, I’m waiting for you.”_      

Ass crashed to stone.

Dropping down beside, Sam drew Frodo into the circle of his cloak, his arms. “Well, I’m tired if you’re not.”

Contact with mountain lost, Sam as buffer, control regained, visions faded, smoking wasteland residue left behind. “Yeah, a break, then.”

“Hope you don’t mind waiting here with me. Just can’t take another step.” Responsibility, blame, for the delay, this was a something he could carry for Frodo.  
  
And he loved Sam even more. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean to rush you. Take all the time you need.”

“Thanks, ‘cause I was thinking on a little nap, ya, know, catch a few z’s before the final push up to the top. “

“Go ahead, if you’re that tired,” most accommodating position to help Sam off to – head snuggling to shoulder, “But, I don’t think…I…could…sleep…”

“Frodo?”

“Sing to…me… … …Sam.”

The steady puff across arm clear indication that own advice had been heeded. Frodo was asleep. A sigh as deep as he dared, Sam leaned head to the dark rock, consummately exhausted. By his internal clock it should be about 3 AM, but he couldn’t be sure, couldn’t see to tell for clouds hid the moon. There was some comfort in that, he supposed. Their backs were covered by the mountain, no one could sneak up that way. The darkness hid them from the mouth and any danger peering in. Which in itself was a funny notion considering they were hundreds of feet up in the air. Not really funny ha ha, but even the small chuckle ceased when Frodo shifted.  
  
No, they were safe for now. The only person – thing - who knew where they cowered had conveniently disappeared. Any stock in Frodo’s claim that only Gollum could help them in this quest to destroy the Ring, absence would be troubling. But, he never had believed in Gollum’s worth, and found mood lightened a bit not to be under that thing’s scrutiny. Maybe gone for good, a very pleasant thought.  
  
Frodo felt pity for Gollum – no, Smeeeeeeagol - because of what the Ring had done to him. No innocent, though, no pristine life mangled by the Shadow, that closet no doubt lousy with skeletons.  And Bilbo had held the bloody thing for years and he never once skulked about hocking lugees, and playing with himself in dark corners. He never talked to himself and slavered over the Ring as if it were more precious than life itself. No, Bilbo had kept the Ring and remained normal. Well, Bilbo’s brand of normal.  
  
OK, yes, the Ring was taking his Frodo away. Changing, stealing him, but Frodo was fighting back against the pull, battling the Eye tooth and fucking nail. Why hadn’t Gollum done the same? Because he was weak, and that not was pitiable, but damnable.  
  
So, Frodo had insisted, demanded, decreed, on Gollum leading them. However, that did not bestow either agreement or acceptance. Only tolerance, bare minimum at that.

“Disgusting little fucker.”  
  
Frodo twitched, restless in slumber. When he reached for the Ring at his breast, Sam gave him his hand to clutch instead.  
  
So what if Gollum HAD left them? So what? What would they do then? What’s next for Frodo and Sam? Well, they were nearly to this secret entrance into Mordor. They would continue up until the Stairs ended, and Sam figured the entrance had to be up there somewhere. They would find it. After that? Mordor. And then? They had to make it to The Cracks of Doom. Simple, right? There would be guards, definitely guards, shitloads of guards. He had seen what stood on the gates of that place, guns pointed outward. He would have to be the biggest kind of fool to think there were not at least a few guns pointed in, also. That would be a problem. They could sneak under the radar, though. Who would expect anyone trying to sneak INTO Mordor? That gave them the element of surprise. Even if Sauron waited, even if the Eye watched. That all-seeing Eye –

Sam’s shudder shifted them both.

They were safe now, though, in their hidey hole, and every bit of comfort should be taken with a thankful heart. And after this what lay ahead for Frodo and Sam? Well…

The rain shushed, Frodo mumbled, the unknown lowering Sam to sleep.

 

*****

 

 

The rain had passed by the time Gollum slipped back into the small cave. They had visited Her, giving the news of their impending gift, rejoicing to share their brilliant plan: _Lead them to the Stairs. Take them up the Stairs. Show Master the Tunnel. Show Master to Her. Watch Her take Master…_ Their last checklist item, taking the Treasure from hollow, desiccated bodies, well, She needn’t be bothered with the clean-up details. Impatient as ever, She had rudely ordered them to hurry things along. Go NOW! Gollum scurring back to get things moving.  
  
Knew they would be right there, the condition of Master obvious, the climb had ground him down to near dust, and he was passed out cold. Not a problem, not a worry, though. Even though it would make Her furious to be second guessed, they did not mind the wait, really. Better that Master be rested before going in, She preferred lively dinner companions.  
  
From their perch at cave’s opening, Gollum watched Master in the prick’s lap. One snored while the other mumbled, faces expressionless slack. They slept soundly, wrapped around and breathing as one, prick’s hand resting lightly on Frodo’s shoulder, the other Master held firmly in his. Nothing new, every time, the queers just couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Sinuses, left then right, cleared out over the ledge.

_Wake ‘em up, She’s waiting. Kick the prick hard and get them moving._

But, they didn’t.

Maybe it was because they were starving, last good meal on the Island day before yesterday, or that the moonlight always transfixed, everything becoming magical – to Smeagol only – or that begin around the martyr and his sex toy for so long they’d  –

_No fucking way. Know the plan, what we must do for The Treasure. They go to Her starting right now. Let’s go._

But, they didn’t.

Couldn’t figure it out. Why did they hesitate, this close to long scam’s fruition, this close to being whole again?

_Do it! Fucking do it now!_

But, he didn’t.

Gave less than a rat’s ass for the faggots’ well-being, not guilt neither, so why? The humiliation, the groveling, the bullshit forced to endure at the –

Hands. It was those hands – one pale and slim, the other broad tanned. Why he hadn’t noticed before – those pawing hands, those homo hands…a perfect fit. Together in sleep, entwined in –

Like someone slugged him, a boot to the head, knocking back, memories slammed in hard. Had known that once, so fucking long – and her name was – to be adored, to be cherished – two into one – rare, so rare – here in all places, while she waited above – he remembered what it was like to be love –

Empty. Wasted, chewed up – alone. No, worse than alone. The Treasure was all, The Treasure took all. He was nothing.

Not too late, to turn around, maybe turn aside. For him, yes, fate already sealed, no forgiveness sought, but, for those hands, a chance given, an escape, from Her, from destruction, the chance to live, be loved. He would give them that, future choices their own. Bargain broken, he would wake them to freedom, one touch, his final act, the beauty of love would be -

A hand caught his wrist. Eyes locked.  
  
“If you so much as touch one hair on his head, motherfucker” Sam ‘s whispered vow, “I _will_ kill you.”  
  
Their hand snatched away.

 

  
*****  
  
  
  
With no way to gauge time, Sam could not tell how long they had climbed on this second leg of The Stairs except for the number of times hand and foot reached for the next step. 1,011. Gollum’s excited voice calling from above gave the first clue that the end at long last had come. The second, the disappearance of Frodo’s legs as he went up and over, and third, Sam flopping up on the edge, sweaty spent and breathless.

“God fucking damn.” No strength left to even roll over, move face away from poking rocks. “Next time we take the elevator.”  
  
This ledge much bigger than the first, this opening cavernous, Gollum literally dancing back and forth babbling and frothing, begging for Frodo to come toward the entrance. With morbid curiosity, he advanced warily, fascinated how the darkness swallowed up the dawn’s light.

“Frodo, be careful!” A moan for having to moving, a grunt to get moving. “Wait for me!”

“Yeah, Sam, careful, wait, I know.”

Pack’s contents had shifted uncomfortable during the climb and, with focus squarely on Frodo, a moment taken to rearrange straps over shoulders. Really should have been watching something else instead.

“Buh-bye, Samwise.”

One tug on bottom of cloak, weight thrown back. One push to chest, pack and all attached disappeared over the ledge. All said and done in an instant.  
  
“Where’s Sam?” Frodo unable to tear eyes away from the cave.  
  
The grin tasted like canary. “He dropped something.”  
  
“What’s, I mean,” pushing absently at glasses, eyes glued to the opening in a train wreck sort of way, “what _is_ this place?”  
  
The grin grew wider. “Master, welcome to The Tunnel.”


End file.
